The Poet Translates the Cryptic Text He Sent in a Fever from the Camino de Santiago Trail, and: Lives of the Animals, and: Whatever Troubled Hand, and: Biting the Piano, and: I’m Done with Birds and; Having My Back Erased

The Poet Translates the Cryptic Text He Sent in a Fever from the Camino de Santiago Trail, and: Lives of the Animals, and: Whatever Troubled Hand, and: Biting the Piano, and: I'm Done with Birds and; Having My Back Erased Lance Larsen (bio) When I said the longest day of the year,I meant not solstice or planetary tiltbut I miss you. On certain days longingcan't tell the difference between driftingapple blossoms and a phantom skiffof snow. When I said history is hunger,I meant three campesinos butchering a goat behind a girls' school, two nephewsratcheting it up off the ground,their great-aunt bowing her head to pray.When I said joy comes in the morning,I meant a stray mongrel creeping closeto lick my hand as I carried a bagof apples from the open-air market. When I said a church caught fireover the weekend, I meant a churchcaught fire—a tiny chapel on a hilloutside Santiponce beside a cemetery(remember the leaning steeple I sentpictures of?), windows busted out,sirens in town blaring, ravens circling. Parishioners held hands and sang,as if inviting angels to tossinvisible buckets of water from on high.When I said even the sky kindled flames,I meant my fingers wanting to touchyou for 1000 years at dawn besidea lapping lake six time zones away. End Page 87 Lives of the Animals Remember how frogs wise as Aquinas spawnedin musky ponds, and you could lickbutterfly dust off your fingers for luck?Remember hopping rabbits, each onea manifesto in white, how when you napped, they opened their pink eyes inside you?Remember that invisible kingdomassembling behind your solar plexus,leaf by feather by haunting ghost,like a nest, and this is where your soul slept? Remember the forbidden ditchbeyond your house? After wading,you'd peel squirming leeches from yoursister's legs, and she'd peel them from yours,and that tenderness equaled a theology of touch and united you against all darkness.Remember praying to a foxand three hours later God would fallfrom the sky, splashing everywhere,forgiving even the little things? Remember learning the dead man's floatat the YMCA, always wonderingwill there be a final test, will I be ableto hold my breath like a seal and floatto the other side? Remember touching a blue-belly lizard and asking which shiningcreature will I become in the next world?Remember the startled magpie that flewup and away on a winter walk, cawing,all prodigal selves speaking your name at once? End Page 88 Whatever Troubled Hand The deer was dead and now Bus Driver Ladywas standing in the aisle, saying she had never hit a creature before and felt sorry all over, indicating not just her heart but her black laced boots and tremblingshoulders, even her hair. Yes, the deer was dead but that didn't change her numero uno priority: get us from Sad Point Ato Less Sad Point B, on schedule, more or less, that is if the damned traffic cooperated for once. The deer was dead but morning was still gorgeously September. Did the mapleson the hill seem more like rust or cleansing fire? I tried to keep score by staring at the leaves but fire would win then rust then fire.The deer was dead. Still, geese angled across the sky like an adoring caress, and a hot air balloon hung above a cornfield advertising that now you, yes you,have a friend in the diamond business. The deer was dead and the blind woman two rows up dropped her hand from her lapto the aisle, and her black Lab licked her fingers. She brought her hand close to her face and sniffed. Who knew that the smell of dog saliva could bring comfort?The deer was dead and now Bus Driver Lady glided up the aisle to her driver's chair. Then turned back towards us. One more thing,whose bike is strapped to the nose of the bus? My hand shot...