The Old Country
in memory of Nat Adderley
By Al Young

All the old countries we freeze and thaw--
your Germany, my South, your Cuba, Vermont.
You talk about diminishing returns, the law
that governs Texas. What is it we want,
or need to haul or lug like Motorolas
of the blood? Beep! The mileage we squander
on these jumps from mayonnaise Minnesotas
to curry Calcuttas, from Tokyos you could wander
like spy-quality surveillance snapshots. Half
of you dwells in your dreaded origins. Beep!
Is this the constant wake-up call we laugh
about, then reconsider when we need to sleep?
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, drunk
on memory-- the way your mother scrubbed a fish,
the way your father cried over the crusty trunk
jammed with photos all jumbled up, a swish
a gurgle; the pond and river-like wash of romance-
you freeze. You shiver through the old countries:
your Michigans, Ohios, Indianas, Lagos, France.
You draw lines, you push, the spongy boundaries
squeeze until they bleed. Beep! Old country fuzz;
its sad clarity; the sanctity of what is, what was.

Copyright © Al Young. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the author.

Cave Canem congratulates Al Young, Poet Laureate of California, 2005-07

Copyright © 1997-2007 by Cave Canem Foundation, Inc.

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