by Jeremy Nathan Marks
If we are refused the right to mourn
the death by fire of children in Denver
then the words of Dylan Thomas
have perhaps become equivalent to those
of Redford’s opponent in The Candidate
Crocker Jarmon who bore the farm away
with owls afloat on half wings, their beaks
marked for taxidermies at the hands of one
who holds their lease in a poem of a different
name.
Robert, no longer am I young.
You are not bringing dignity to the undignified
character of Roy Hobbes any longer, a figment
whose greatest sin was his appetite, especially when
it came to the manager’s niece who knew beauty
might've wanted love
Redford, you could play the occasional villain
but never scum. And in your absence I wonder
if Hobbes returns to form, to the point Malamud
makes about appetites that can’t be contained
By outfield fences. Or the imaginations of fine
young fans. They don’t come to see you anymore
because the game, which was always partly
of the mind, dwells today in a tiny room with poor
lighting
And no natural grass. Robert, I am young no longer
because the way you made Bob Woodward a warrior
of pen on paper is impossible when so many never learn
to write. A confession isn’t a memoir and yet we can’t escape
the text. The text is all; not even the body can tell foot from hand
without a nib.
But you fought for the eagle, wild rivers, expanses of mingling
bodies. Perhaps a new generation of actors will find their agency
in florid rock, beyond the tract of human mouths, who use the tongue
as a latch to withdraw monologues into long sequences of silence.
Where physical grace
Which you had in abundance
Returns talkies to their shelves. At least for awhile.
Time enough to hear the condor, a once great Colorado
move alpine melt waters past sumps in cabbage deserts
end this beanfield war with gestures worthy of a grand mime.
Marcel Marceau for our riparian rights
Jeremiah Johnson for the defense.
Jeremy Nathan Marks lives in Canada. His latest book is Captain's Kismet (Alien Buddha, 2025).
