Robert Cooperman

A Quick Tour of the Corn Palace, Mitchell, South Dakota: Late Summer, 1972

The name intrigued us:

a building constructed of corn?

So we detoured from I-80,

and on Mitchell’s main drag:

A real palace? Nope, a country

music-hall, its façade covered

with neat rows of ears of corn.

“Wanna check it out?” Dwayne up

for a down-home corn-syrup stroll.

“Absolutely not!” Natalie and Ananda

shrieked in their Oxbridge accents

sharp as slashing broadswords: country music

the domain of rednecks, idiots, racists,

and lynch mobs: in other words, every

American, including Dwayne and me.

“Oh yeah,” I muttered, “Peace and love-

halos sprout from angelic heads all over

‘England’s green and pleasant land.’”

So we drove east in a silence thick

as the wind-driven knee-high grass

that lashed the fading tombstones

of the Revolutionary War graveyard,

back in Brooklyn.

Driving Past Jerry Garcia’s House: Marin County,

Late Summer, 1972

A few days after I’d visited 710 Asbury St.—

standing outside the Dead’s first office, soaking

up the vibe from the long-gone band—Dwayne and I

drove past Garcia’s Marin County home: rock stars

getting back to the land, as the “Woodstock” song urged.

Neither of us able to play anything but kazoos,

we didn’t have the wick to knock. Enough to drive

past, then back again, then a last return trip,

hoping for a smiling wave from Saint Jerry,

noodling away on an old Gibson on his porch.

On the drive back to Berkely, I told Dwayne

that when I was a camp counselor in Upstate New York,

on their days off, guys who could play would hitch

to Pete Seeger’s nearby house. If he was home

and in the mood, he’d invite them in to jam;

if he was on tour, his wife might welcome them,

like a den mother, for milk and cookies.

Now, Dwayne and I thought, what could we have said?

“Dig your music, Mr. Garcia?” and stood there

like grinning idiots. Better to make up an encounter,

to impress friends, and of course, ourselves.

A Chatter of Bats

No need to fear us: we feed on

insects and fruit, not your throats.

True, we forage and dart at night,

our sonar keeping us from crashing

into trees, cars, fences, buildings.

But sometimes our claws catch

in your hair, even more disturbing for us,

so stay calm, and please don’t resort

to panicked shrieks and head slaps

meant to sweep us away, but too often

we lie gasping, chattering on the ground,

your terror turning to rage

at our momentary helplessness,

and you stamp out our little lives.

But when you invade our caves

to drink beer and smoke weed,

and see us hanging upside down,

you might think it great fun

to hold lit matches under us.

Even asleep, even half-blind,

we see and feel everything;

at the first sign of mischief

we’ll swarm past you, brushing

your sleeves, necks, and hair

in our great rush of wind:

amusing to hear you scream,

choke on your beers, and run

as if great Dracula were chasing you.

Robert Cooperman's latest collection is REEFER MADNESS (Kelsay Books). Forthcoming from Apprentice House is GO PLAY OUTSIDE.

On Driving Interstate-80: Late Summer, 1972

Cleveland Amory, the TV and social critic,

once half quipped you could drive Interstate 80

coast to coast, and see nothing but cars and trucks:

its 3,000 mile cutthroat-razor path sliced out

everything of interest: small farms, petroglyphs,

strange geological formations, and battlefields

along twisting, leisurely blacktop roads.

It was begun by Eisenhower—to funnel panicked

Americans out of cities when the Soviets launched

the big ones—so scenic views were not a top priority

when engineers drew their more or less straight lines

from cities choked with terrified traffic.

That late summer of 1972, we didn’t have two weeks

to reach the Coast, and leave I-80, to zig-zag and amble

westward, stopping at Lake Erie, to climb the giant dunes

and marvel at that inland sea, to take in the Badlands,

Glacier National Park when there still were glaciers there,

and sashay down to Arches, Bryce, Zion, the Grand Canyon,

the Snake River Gorge, over to the Tetons and Yellowstone,

and all the sights people on road trips take photos of:

the four of us in a hurry to see friends on the Coast,

to feel the Flower Child vibe, before it turned bitter

as rattler venom, which it was sure to do, and did.

On Line at Ellis Island: Rivka Breslau, 1902

I feared the voyage would never end,

forever at the rail, shuddering out all I’d eaten,

until my stomach finally settled,

so I can appear strong for the doctors inspecting

to see if we’re fit to enter the Golden Land.

I try to get the children not to run wild,

as they did on the ship. We must look serious,

I remind them, and under no circumstance

must they cough, which of course sets them

all to hack and wheeze. I slap their heads

to quiet them, and shoot my husband Simon

a look so dirty the evil eye would shrivel away

in terror, when I catch him chatting to a young slut.

I pinch the children’s cheeks, to bring out the roses

that will tell the doctors they’re healthy as wolf cubs.

An official checks and stamps our passports,

and points to the white coated doctor, his cigar threads

the air as foully as a swaggering officer of the Tsar.

Oh please don’t let Moshe do something terrible,

the official’s excuse to ship us all back to England;

worse, to the Tsar’s murderous Russia. Thank God,

Daniel’s an angel, and Esther’s so apple-cheeked

pretty the doctor just waves them through.

“Be good,” I whisper to Moshe, “please!”

For once, he obeys, and we’re on the ferry

to a place called Manhattan, then walking in America,

Simon’s brother, Lazar, waves, even if the streets

are cobblestoned, not the promised gold. Maybe,

where Lazar lives they glitter, though I doubt it:

his coat a little threadbare; he’s in need of a haircut.

Still, we’re here, and no one will force us back,

this I swear, on my poor parents’ graves.

A Rapacity of Wolves

During the Middle Ages and on,

we’ve put skin-freezing fear into you,

in your unwalled settlements, isolated farms,

or if you were stupid enough to travel

by night on easily panicked horses.

In one folktale, a wedding party returned

by troika from the ceremony; our ancestors

chased the horses; the driver shoved

the bride, then the groom into the snow,

so he could outrun our forebears.

What a feast they had! Revenge

for your turning us into rapacious,

full-moon-vicious monsters

in stories meant to frighten children.

When Napoleon retreated from Russia,

his troops were terrified of those werewolves,

when it was only our brothers and sisters

trailing the fleeing French army, picking off

the ones who couldn’t keep up, every creature

hungrier, weaker, slower in the cold and snow,

the Little Corporal’s army much easier

to find, bring down, and feast on than deer

or mice and rabbits, clever little creatures

darting into warrens, the ground too hard

with frost for our forebears to dig them out.

To assuage your fears, your scientists claim

no full grown human in America has been killed

by wolves since the introduction of guns.

Would you like to wager your throat on that?