The Flight

That day I hired a private detective to follow me,

and could not read his notes. In a tangled grove,

I hid behind white pines, compressed my body,

then watched him write, left-handed and myopic,

under an Irish cap, when I asked for help

from strangers who spoke Slavic languages.

Wary, moving ahead, I found a depot,

watched an immense train churn, haloed in steam,

and boarded, second class. I had no ticket,

and my expired passport represented

a drooping head with unfamiliar eyes.

Unshaken, rows behind, the stranger waited,

wielding camera and pen. Across the border

I disembarked, but knew he would capture me,

with soundless footsteps, even on black gravel.

I tried to recall my crime. I know I am guilty,

but never why. Lawless, I have ignored

those signs: WRONG WAY; GO BACK and NO WAY OUT,

circles that tell me YOU ARE HERE. I gather

it is the whispers that explode, the looks

that make dogs whimper. When I bow in prayer

I think of love; I know I’ve killed my friends,

pelting them with a touch—and yet I’ve heard

they are alive. Besides, that’s not the real

offense. I would cross any path, or trek

through swamps to find my crime. But even he,

that bald, insistent man who follows me,

unsleeping, cannot tell me what I’ve done.

Copyright Credit: Grace Schulman, “The Flight” from Days of Wonder: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 2002 by Grace Schulman. Reprinted with the permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved, www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com.

Source: Days of Wonder: New and Selected Poems (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2002)