by Mark Jarman

    Is nothing real but when I was fifteen，

    Going on sixteen， like a corny song？

    I see myself so clearly then， and painfully——

    Knees bleeding through my usher's uniform

    Behind the candy counter in the theater

    After a morning's surfing； paddling frantically¹

    To top the brisk outsiders coming to wreck² me，

    Trundle me clumsily along the beach floor's

    Gravel³ and sand； my knees aching with salt.

    Is that all I have to write about？

    You write about the life that's vividest.

    And if that is your own， that is your subject.

    And if the years before and after sixteen

    Are colorless as salt and taste like sand——

    Return to those remembered chilly⁴ mornings，

    The light spreading like a great skin on the water，

    And the blue water scalloped with wind-ridges，

    And——what was it exactly？——that slow waiting

    When， to invigorate yourself， you peed

    Inside your bathing suit and felt the warmth

    Crawl all around your hips⁵ and thighs⁶，

    And the first set rolled in and the water level

    Rose in expectancy⁷， and the sun struck

    The water surface like a brassy palm，

    Flat and gonglike， and the wave face formed.

    Yes. But that was a summer so removed

    In time， so specially⁸ peculiar⁹ to my life，

    Why would I want to write about it again？

    There was a day or two when， paddling out，

    An older boy who had just graduated

    And grown a great blonde moustache， like a walrus¹⁰，

    Skimmed past me like a smooth machine on the water，

    And said my name. I was so much younger，

    To be identified by one like him——

    The easy deference¹¹ of a kind of god

    Who also went to church where I did——made me

    Reconsider my worth. I had been noticed.

    He soon was a small figure crossing waves，

    The shawling crest¹² surrounding him with spray，

    Whiter than gull¹³ feathers. He had said my name

    Without scorn， just with a bit of surprise

    To notice me among those trying the big waves

    Of the morning break. His name is carved now

    On the black wall in Washington， the frozen wave

    That grievers cross to find a name or names.

    I knew him as I say I knew him， then，

    Which wasn't very well. My father preached

    His funeral. He came home in a bag

    That may have mixed in pieces of his squad¹⁴.

    Yes， I can write about a lot of things

    Besides the summer that I turned sixteen.

    But that's my ground swell¹⁵. I must start

    Where things began to happen and I knew it.

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