Letter to Cummins from the Island of Idyllwild
Dear Jim, forgive the long
delay in writing
But the feasts go on from
dawn to dawn
And the natives insist on
feeding us by hand, slices
of papaya
And mango with orange beer. Last
night
We stood beneath a sky of
white and green silk sea
Anemones pulsing like
parachutes above an amphitheater
as wide
As a valley, and a single
child walked out to sing to
the crows
Rasping above us in nearby
pines. You may not remember
this, but
That child, circumcised and
blond, outshouted the sea
That summer when amnesia
invaded our sleeping bags
Like bugs transmitting the
intimacy of an illness.
You had sex with a friendly
neighbor and woke up without
A hangover or any memory of
how she seduced you.
The island was full of enchantments,
and still is.
There are lotus flowers,
young goddesses with liquid bodies
In loose summer frocks,
craters of quicksand and
rushing rapids.
On this island no news is
fair weather, and the women
write poems.
And so whatever you might
have feared for us, don’t
worry now.
The six points of the pirate’s
compass will guide us
As the six breezes from the
seven continents return like
A sestina’s consolation and
the envoy’s delight. Here, on our
Perpetually new isle, we can
imagine you imagining us, idle
as the natives
Of Idyllwild, yearning to be
as wise, and as wild. David
& David.
—
John