My first paper job
was mostly to please my stepfather,
who’d match the five cents I made
from each paper. I was 10, would run
to hawk in early Saturday morning bars,
where old Alaskans drank, many of them lacking
parts of frostbitten noses or ears.
Once, my customers toasted my innocence
to spice resolution of a bar dispute. Did the crusty
barmaid have milk in her breasts
or not? I watched the stream
from her sagging, naked breast
pattern the shiny bar top.
I grabbed my tip,
ran through laughter
and barroom smells
out to the shore
of Resurrection Bay.
Seward, 1953
(No. 77 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
Loss of innocence comes in many forms. It took a while for this one to sink in.
(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)
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