In 1958
from THE COLUMBIA REVIEW, vol. 47, no. 2, 1967
Solstice, 1968 29
david lehman
becca liu
In 1958 my sister Joan came in And said, Roy Campanella broke his neck On the radio In the kitchen eating cereal. He was driving in the snow And ice we heard later. I put on a hat and warm coat And went to the eighth grade. He was driving from a charity drive Or some such function Which goes to show his great Character, that of Roy Campanella, Who will now never play in Los Angeles.
We stalked in this city of twice-breathed air embalmed as in a closing lung, strange suffocation blooming hot. Heat punctured the marrow, yellow sky stitched shut. The fountains ran dry and trees sussurated to our conched ears. We wanted only the sea’s damp fingers squeezing chill through the quay, an open harbor and the shore’s revolving light. We returned to swarthy arms of deep, where the ocean licked clean each ribbon of rock our bones and the waves unclenched then closed. We emerged salt-soaked, unsullied. Each eye a little storm and the quay quivering also. With each fingerless grip of damp, we whorled shut beneath the tide.