And again You: face for a gathering. A YOU face, a-you-fAce (Italian accent), my doll, my Matt Doll (my mom’s accent). Oh you held me and I wanted to stay.
In the classrooms they are chanting vowels. Who’s chanting? A lesson. Chant now: “Where are you going, Big Pig? To dig. I’m going to Dig. And What will you dig, Big Pig? A bit white turnip.” This and the vowels as they unfold, or unfetter, or calcify in soup or a name for a place, or a shaming place.
Your face hears its name and brightens, collects, redraws old storybooks, maps to the treasure in the yard, the hidden coins, the snakeskin, cigar box with some of your baby teeth, a tonic against memory loss. But it goes, you watch it. Muhammad Ali, his hands shake now almost uncontrollably, says:
““I was twenty…twenty what? Twenty-two. Now I’m fifty-four. Fifty-four.” He said nothing for a minute or so. Then he said, “Time flies. Flies. Flies. It flies away.” Then, very slowly, Ali lifted his hand and fluttered his fingers like the wings of a bird.”