I am walking along the dazzling ruin of a road I knew
When I was fourteen, summer, and the days stretch out
Like the road itself, or like that song about a road heading
Somewhere far off into the unseen and the one walking,
Caminante no hay camino, knows he’s come upon his life
Rising up to him in white quartz macadam and heat-haze.Complete poem available online at Plume
Immediately, a yellow glow of nostalgia fills the page (in spite of the white of the road). Is this a dream? A memory? Either works. In any case, the speaker is brought back to another time, to the neighborhood star Dante Tedeschi, known as Boone for reasons that are not disclosed.
It’s a time in the late 60s, perhaps, a time of patio parties and citronella candles and whisky sours, of bikes with banana seats. We’re told an outline of a story of Dante pulling an Evel Knievel stunt on his bicycle, and because the tone is hushed and reverent, we expect this to end in tragedy, but no. Dante is the kid with the “incongruous swagger and coke-bottle glasses”, who “attained whatever he desired, slaughter / On the game board, sliding catches in left-center / On Power’s Field, even the soft-limbed Patty of dreams.” A good kid, it seems, remembered affectionately.
But we know there will be something that brings the poem to an end, a reason he is remembered so vividly. And there is.
He was first to go,
The buzz coming by phone one winter evening
After those summers had disbanded to intimations
Of more necessary longings, for jobs, for departures,
The bullet passing clean through his skull at a sister’s
Wedding, the trigger pulled by the groom’s hand.
What he had done or said, none of us would come
To know, though all of us could hear inside
That rapid fire laugh, haughty, untamable, and saw
His shambling, self-assured walk as in a heatwave
Off the White Road, Dante alias Boone, in saddle
On his Schwinn wheeling breakneck from on high
Down Heart Attack in the mind’s would-be perpetual
Now, hair flying, pot-holes loose gravel be damned,
Down to where the rigged ramp rose upward above
The waiting lake, our crowd of bored numb-nuts cheering
As bike and rider flew treacherously up into the air
And out beyond the shore, and disappeared—circlets
Of waves radiating out like visible ticks from a clock face,
Slowly softening into nothing one by one by one
As we waited for the quick-eyed, impudent head to rise.
The holes in the narrative (why did this happen?) match the holes in the reported memory (why was he called Boone?) and perhaps are details not considered important. Maybe we’re better off not knowing, not remembering some things, if we’re going for the golden glow of nostalgia.
It’s almost an elegy, turning from the summer of golden nostalgia to the present to show a white road going forward, a way of remembering Dante, waiting, again, for him to surface.