Ampersand

‘He thought it had only been put there
to finish off th’ alphabet, like, though
ampus-and (&) would ha’ done as well.’
(George Eliot: Adam Bede)

And had in fact, for generations—

the plump, open armed ‘&’ waving goodbye

from the end of the old-world alphabet

like an innkeeper framed in doorway candlelight,

farewells swelled with hopes of come again.

Then the old world burned down

because we sensed, beyond the candle’s glow,

the road led to a dead end. No

traveler returned, even the unverified

odd reports of happy returns petered out.

So we renovated the alphabet, signing it

off with a streamlined ‘z’ as sharp

and final as lightning: no sense

in posting notice of further connections

that didn’t exist, or passing off maps as places.

Trouble was, nobody felt at home

in the revamped compound. Bookings fell off,

postcards of views of blank walls piled unsold

in the unvisited gift shop, the same

paperbacks stalled on the revolving racks.

It was a paradise of sorts, a golden age

of nullity, no relatives

breaking the costly silence. No wonder Eliot’s

befuddled Jacob Storey felt his page

of Z’s was somehow ‘not right,’ that

‘it was a letter you never wanted hardly.’

He knew, as one newly released from the unlit

cell of his long-unlettered ignorance,

what you did want hardly: you wanted,

needed—as hardly as Hetty Sorrel,

abandoned at the dock—someone to stand by.

You were the murderess of your baby,

silenced with a ‘z.’ You needed a hand,

the open-armed return of all your relations.

You wanted, harder than death, ampersand

Source: Midland Swimmer (Brick Books, 1996)