by Anthony Hecht

    I'm mighty¹ glad to see you， Mrs. Curtis，

    And thank you very kindly² for this visit

    Especially now when all the others here

    Are having holiday visitors， and I feel

    A little conspicuous³ and in the way.

    It's mainly because of Thanksgiving.  All these mothers

    And wives and husbands gaze at me soulfully

    And feel they should break up their box of chocolates

    For a donation， or hand me a chunk⁴ of fruitcake.

    What they don't understand and never guess

    Is that it's better for me without a family；

    It's a great blessing⁵.  Though I mean no harm.

    And as for visitors， why， I have you，

    All cheerful， brisk and punctual every Sunday，

    Like church， even if the aisles⁶ smell of phenol.

    And you always bring even better gifts than any

    On your book-trolley. Though they mean only good，

    Families can become a sort of burden.

    I've only got my father， and he won't come，

    Poor man， because it would be too much for him.

    And for me， too， so it's best the way it is.

    He knows， you see， that I will predecease him，

    Which is hard enough.  It would take a callous⁷ man

    To come and stand around and watch me failing.

    （Now don't you fuss； we both know the plain facts.）

    But for him it's even harder.  He loved my mother.

    They say she looked like me； I suppose she may have.

    Or rather， as I grew older I came to look

    More and more like she must one time have looked，

    And so the prospect⁸ for my father now

    Of losing me is like having to lose her twice.

    I know he frets⁹ about me.  Dr. Frazer

    Tells me he phones in every single day，

    Hoping that things will take a turn for the better.

    But with leukemia things don't improve.

    It's like a sort of blizzard¹⁰ in the bloodstream，

    A deep， severe， unseasonable winter，

    Burying everything.  The white blood cells

    Multiply crazily and storm around，

    Out of control.  The chemotherapy

    Hasn't helped much， and it makes my hair fall out.

    I know I look a sight， but I don't care.

    I care about fewer things； I'm more selective.

    It's got so I can't even bring myself

    To read through any of your books these days.

    It's partly weariness， and partly the fact

    That I seem not to care much about the endings，

    How things work out， or whether they even do.

    What I do instead is sit here by this window

    And look out at the trees across the way.

    You wouldn't think that was much， but let me tell you，

    It keeps me quite intent and occupied.

    Now all the leaves are down， you can see the spare，

    Delicate structures of the sycamores，

    The fine articulation¹¹ of the beeches¹².

    I have sat here for days studying them，

    And I have only just begun to see

    What it is that they resemble.  One by one，

    They stand there like magnificent enlargements

    Of the vascular¹³ system of the human brain.

    I see them there like huge discarnate minds，

    Lost in their meditative¹⁴ silences.

    The trunks， branches and twigs¹⁵ compose the vessels¹⁶

    That feed and nourish vast immortal¹⁷ thoughts.

    So I've assigned them names.  There， near the path，

    Is the great brain of Beethoven， and Kepler

    Haunts the wide spaces of that mountain ash.

    This view， you see， has become my Hall of Fame，

    It came to me one day when I remembered

    Mary Beth Finley who used to play with me

    When we were girls.  One year her parents gave her

    A birthday toy called "The Transparent¹⁸ Man."

    It was made of plastic， with different colored organs，

    And the circulatory system all mapped out

    In rivers of red and blue.  She'd ask me over

    And the two of us would sit and study him

    Together， and do a powerful lot of giggling¹⁹.

    I figure he's most likely the only man

    Either of us would ever get to know

    Intimately， because Mary Beth became

    A Sister of Mercy when she was old enough.

    She must be thirty-one； she was a year

    Older than I， and about four inches taller.

    I used to envy both those advantages

    Back in those days.  Anyway， I was struck

    Right from the start by the sea-weed intricacy，

    The fine-haired， silken-threaded filiations

    That wove， like Belgian lace， throughout the head.

    But this last week it seems I have found myself

    Looking beyond， or through， individual trees

    At the dense²⁰， clustered woodland just behind them，

    Where those great， nameless crowds patiently stand.

    It's become a sort of complex， ultimate puzzle

    And keeps me fascinated.  My eyes are twenty-twenty，

    Or used to be， but of course I can't unravel²¹

    The tousled snarl²² of intersecting limbs，

    That mackled， cinder²³ grayness.  It's a riddle²⁴

    Beyond the eye's solution.  Impenetrable.

    If there is order in all that anarchy²⁵

    Of granite²⁶ mezzotint， that wilderness²⁷，

    It takes a better eye than mine to see it.

    It set me on to wondering how to deal

    With such a thickness of particulars，

    Deal with it faithfully， you understand，

    Without blurring²⁸ the issue. Of course I know

    That within a month the sleeving snows will come

    With cold， selective emphases， with massings

    And arbitrary contrasts， rendering²⁹ things

    Deceptively simple， thickening the twigs

    To frosty veins³⁰， bestowing³¹ epaulets

    And decorations on every birch and aspen.

    And the eye， self-satisfied， will be misled，

    Thinking the puzzle solved， supposing at last

    It can look forth³² and comprehend the world.

    That's when you have to really watch yourself.

    So I hope that you won't think me plain ungrateful

    For not selecting one of your fine books，

    And I take it very kindly that you came

    And sat here and let me rattle³³ on this way.

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