Prologue 

TALKING TO NICK

I was talking to Nick about weaving an epic,
though hardly had we talked in years.
And this was April’s promise:

“You have everything you need,” he said, “to do it!
The essential process now is one of contemplation.
Know yourself as an archetypal being.
Know your life.
Know your name.
Give yourself a long time,
expecting nothing for at least two years!”

“Two years?” I said.
“But I wanted this book out by September!”

“Oh,” he said, as if returning,
“I forgot you were writing a book.
You had me way out—
we were talking about an epic,
things that take years.
It took Joyce seven or eight years to write Ulysses.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I’m thinking in those terms;
yes,” I said, “I will….”

And he said, “Write your book.
Just go ahead and do it.
That way you will find your own reflection.
But remember: It’s only the first.”

“Ah, Nick,” I said, rescuing with desperate and obligatory grace,
“you’ve taken the pressure of success away from me!”

For the need to succeed robs the effort of its joy,
and as is written on the bathroom wall:
“The means must justify the means.”

“What the epic artist does,” he said,
“is to create a new figure, a new symbol, a new time!”

“Then where is the Magic Moment?”
asked the Child in bed
as she and her Mother watched the second hand
to study the o’clocks.
“How did they slip it in so no one could know?”
Her thumb was in her mouth;
her eyes were dreamy.

“That’s a very good question!” said her Mother.
“Well, the Wise Ones could not find a ready answer either,
my little fat Russian troll,
and so we hear that story another time.”

“Oh,” said the Child. “Well, goodnight, Mommy.
A thousand, thousand, thousand!”

FOOTNOTE: In earlier versions,
the little fat Russian troll is frequently quoted as saying,
“A thousand hugs, a thousand kisses, and a thousand happy dreams!”
It is thought that she herself dropped the additional words
in the interest of time.

“Sweet dreams,” said her Mother,
and they traded Summer kisses.
“A thousand, thousand, thousand!”

“And what’s your book about?” he asked me then.

Between the script and the scripture
dwells the instant of perception;
between the prayer and the play.

“Evolution!” said I.
“Evolution as I witness it at this point in history
within my family! My chosen family!”

And home is a reference point
beside the olive tree,
symbol of the dwelling where we gather.

We climbed the stairs to the portrait
he so graciously had painted
to repay a pittance a dozen years ago
while Alexa dwelt within me.

“Look, Nick!” I said. “It’s by my favorite windows!”
and ran to the landing that we might fully see.

“Rose,” he said,
nodding at the trinity of arched and leaded glass;
“rose….”

Though I had thought them lavender,
the color of the light that shines on her
and the color she looks through is also rose.

“And who’s your heroine?” he asked me now.

“Her name,” I cried, “is Delia Urchin Fair!”