Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

I boarded the train in Albany, and she, in Hudson, NY. For nearly an hour, I silently read next to her and occasionally looked out the window. Morning light cast the entire train car a golden hue. She sipped her to-go coffee and listlessly flipped through a magazine. The train sped to New York City. Gulls raced above the river’s watery mirror, then veered.

She finally intoned “Rita Dove? You must be a writer, more precisely, a poet.” I confessed and told her I was heading to the city to teach a course titled “Visionary Company.” She confessed that she was a literary agent, that her firm represented a few poets, including the estate of Adrienne Rich, but not many. What followed was a cocoon of conversation about books, reading tastes, commercial fiction, and travel. When the conductor came over the loudspeaker, I suddenly realized the volume of chatter around us. I had not noticed the many commuters now crowding the aisle, and where did the time go.

As the train pulled into Penn Station, we all rose, including a slightly older man who sat in front of us. He was imposing, carried a leather briefcase and trench coat over his arm, and came on strong to my seatmate. “You’re very pretty. What’s your name?” She simply said, “Thank you.” It was clear she didn’t want his attention; I could tell from her body language. He seemed the kind of man who did not hear No too much in life. With about a dozen people all squashed together, privy to this moment, he announced, “I’m here for business. Would you like to have dinner, tonight, with me?” “No, no thank you.”

We were penned in, watching the commuters slowly file onto the platform. She had to stand there with him sizing her up. I didn’t know her, but I watched this woman working to avoid eye contact, suddenly tense under his gaze. I had never experienced up-close such a direct advance on a woman that was clearly sexual. I was only a witness to the moment, but I felt my own heart rate spiking. I was angered by his persistence.

There’s nothing wrong with being attracted to people, but there is something wrong with acting on that attraction in a way that reduces them. Today’s poem invokes that same captive feeling, and asks what it leaves just under the surface.

Date
by Taneum Bambrick

Two swans paddle the length of a fountain
in a restaurant by the tourist beach.
Each with a metal band cinched to one leg
catching light as it slides between the foot and joint.
They dip their necks forward.
I imagine they are racing.
From the bar, you return with a friend
who owns a gelato chain in the city.
We kiss each other’s faces.
He laughs when I say that I love ice cream.
Then, only to you in Spanish,
I could eat her face. I could eat her face.
Could she get an American girl for me?
At the end of the fountain, there isn’t space
for the birds to turn their long bodies.
They hit the wall and soundlessly tear at each other’s wings.
Then shake until their feathers settle. Continuing.
Underwater, polished rocks littered
with bread crusts. Coins smaller than pennies.

“Date” by Taneum Bambrick, from Intimacies, Received. Copyright © 2022 by Taneum Bambrick. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Copper Canyon Press, coppercanyonpress.org.