inside a wicker alligator basket
hides a black and white photo
his children are the age
of the faces looking back
he peers into her eyes
able to hold the gaze
the engine squealed
fan belt slapped
severing all ties
the gas pedal
became a foot rest
in the fading twilight
two pairs of feet
tracked neon winks
thunderclaps
drowned their steps
they sprinted through puddles
giggling and shivering
registered
as man and wife
in the motel shack
the cabin had one twin bed
a dresser left empty
she hung up wet shirt and jeans
“I’ll shower first if that’s ok”
he laid wet clothes next to hers
she emerged wearing a white towel
draped it over the headboard
raised the patchwork quilt
folded back the sheets
arranged the pillows
slipped into bed
he turned into the bathroom
slid off his underpants
let the hot stream
douse his hair
sat in the warmth
patting and drying
then opened the door
flipped the towel
onto the dresser
rolled under covers
she smiled at him
“Are you ok? you look nervous…”
they met at breakfast
sixteen hours ago
her mother sat opposite
pulling on the straps
of her pale gingham dress
long blonde hair unbound
garden flower above left ear
“Thank you for taking our daughter”
her husband patted his back
shook hands nodding slowly
kissed his child on the cheek
opened the car door
turned away
strangers in bucket seats
she told jokes
sewed a loose button on his shirt
brought sandwiches on french bread
vine fresh tomatoes
roasted peppers cilantro
smiled whenever he looked
laughed nervously
at the New York state line
she turned away
lay on her side
switched off the lamp
he stared at the ceiling
listened to her breath
he could touch her back
finger stroke the course of her spine
hand trace the shape of her arm
to her hip across her thigh
palm drift along rounded belly
her belly — tomorrow
feet in cold stirrups —
she may have turned towards him
kissed him full on the mouth
he slept on his back
hands on stomach
in the morning the motel manager
asks “How’s your wife?”
snaps a shot of the couple
brunette and blonde in greyscale
next to a highway sign
“Niagara Falls 18 mi”
The book lay closed; each page encased in ice,
till languid eons breathed candescent mist,
releasing knowledge, drip by ponderous drip…
* * *
Twelve thousand years ago, Niagara shaped
its first intent; a trickled thoroughfare
along a chasm scarcely there. It swelled,
became a torrent — nudging, pushing, filled
with rampant longings, surging onward, thrust
of power building, frothing thunder leaping!
The source has birthed a sorcerer who hurls
ebullient roars of ecstasy, wears robes
of lucent majesty. The crowds are hushed,
bewitched by spells of wonderment and awe.
* * *
The book was opened; secrets poured from cores
of weighted centuries and wisdom flowed –
in fluid script that no one understood.
A colony of nudists sing through the waves
loose like sheer capes
at the border of here and south,
quivering unabashedly in orgasm.
It’s not the pirates or daredevils they want
or the hair of widows on balconies
stuck in their tracks with hearts spun like old records
under a mournful sun.
The honeymooners are who they desire
brimming with foam and white white sheets
trailing along the guardrail pungent with sex
even after a shower, still full of nerve.
Cascading down the cliff they signal,
follow the jump in their ears;
The mermaid voices sweeter, more difficult to cast
away than the lines of wedding bells.
Source: Priscila Uppal. Pretending to die. Exile Editions, 2001.
N.B. – The Tussaud Wax Museum does not have an exhibit such as this – in correspondence with the author he imagined this scenario, and figured that Tussaud’s would be the logical place to have it if it existed.
‡‡My lyre! give me my lyre! My bosom feels The glow of inspiration. O how long Have I been left in darkness since this light Last visited my brow, Niagara! Thou with thy rushing waters dost restore The heavenly gift that sorrow took away.
‡‡Tremendous torrent! For an instant hush The terrors of thy voice and cast aside Those wide involving shadows, that my eyes May see the fearful beauty of thy face! I am not all unworthy of thy sight, For from my very boyhood have I loved, Shunning the meaner track of common minds, To look on nature in her loftier moods.
‡‡At the fierce rushing of the hurricane, At the near bursting of the thunderbolt I have been touched with joy; and when the sea, Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark and showed Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved Its dangers and the wrath of elements. But never yet the madness of the sea Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now.
‡‡Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves Grow broken ‘midst the rocks; thy current then Shoots onward like the irresistible course Of destiny. Ah, terribly they rage ― The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there! My brain grows wild, my senses wander, as I gaze Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight Vainly would follow, as toward the verge Sweeps the wide torrent — waves innumerable Meet there and madden — waves innumerable Urge on the overtake the waves before, And disappear in thunder and in foam.
‡‡They reach — they leap the barrier — the abyss Swallows insatiable the sinking waves. A thousand rainbows arch them, and woods Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock Shatters to vapor the descending sheets — A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves The mighty pyramid of circling mist To heaven. The solitary hunter near Pauses with terror in the forest shades.
‡‡What seeks my restless eye? Why are not here, About the jaws of this abyss, the palms — Ah — the delicious palms, that on the plains Of my own native Cuba, spring and spread Their thickly foliaged summits to the sun, And, in the breathings of the ocean air, Wave soft beneath the heaven’s unspotted blue?
‡‡But no, Niagara, — thy forest pines Are fitter coronal for thee. The palm, The effeminate myrtle, and frail rose may grow In gardens, and give out their fragrance there, Unmanning him who breathes it. Thine it is To do a nobler office. Generous minds Behold thee, and are moved, and learn to rise Above earth’s frivolous pleasures; they partake Thy grandeur, at the utterance of thy name.
‡‡God of all truth! in other lands I’ve seen Lying philosophers, blaspheming men, Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw Their fellows deep into impiety, And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face In earth’s majestic solitudes. Even here My heart doth open all itself to thee. In this immensity of loneliness I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear The eternal thunder of the cataract brings Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear.
‡‡Dread torrent! that with wonder and with fear Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself, Whence hast thou thy beginning? Who supplies, Age after age, thy unexhausted springs? What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight Descends into the deep, the swollen waves Rise not, and roll to overwhlem the earth?
‡‡The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice To thy down-rushing waters; he hath girt Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow. I see thy never-resting waters run, And I bethink me how the tide of time Sweeps to eternity. So pass of man — Pass, like a noon-day dream — the blossoming days, And he awakes to sorrow. I alas! Feel that my youth is withered, and my brow Ploughed early with the lines of grief and care.
‡‡Never have I so deeply felt as now The hopeless solitude, the abandonment, The anguish of a loveless life. Alas! How can the impassioned, the unfrozen heart Be happy without love? I would that one Beautiful, — worthy to be loved and joined In love with me, — now shared my lonely walk On this tremendous brink. ‘T were sweet to see Her dear face touched with paleness, and become More beautiful from fear, and overspread With a faint smile while clinging to my side! Dreams — dreams. I am an exile, and for me There is no country and there is no love.
‡‡Hear, dread Niagara, my latest voice! Yet a few years and the cold earth shall close Over the bones of him who sings thee now Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse, Might be like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile, Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest, Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds To listen to the echoes of my fame.
Source: Hills, Elijah Clarence (ed). The Odes of Bello, Olmedo and Heredia. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1920.
Also in the anthology Niagara Mornings by Andrew C. Porteus, 2016.
Also published in a condensed version in Johnson, Richard L. (ed). Niagara: Its History, Incidents and Poetry. Washington: Walter Neale General Book Publisher, 1898
Also published in Rhine, Alice Hyneman. Niagara Park illustrated : original and selected, descriptions, poems and adventures. New York: William T. Hunter, 1888
Also published in: Holley, George W., ed. The Falls of Niagara. Baltimore: A.C. Armstrong & Son, 1883
