Because Page 3

  in the year 2020; because

  she gives disappointing answers

  like Souls are God’s

  experiments in embodiment and

  Our form is no accident

  which I take to mean God won’t

  bring me back as an eagle,

  or even a wolf, even if I ask him to;

  because according to

  Lorna I don’t actually have other lives,

  just one continuous life

  that somehow keeps going in spite

  of my many bodies;

  because each of our lives happens

  out of order

  but it’s not like time travel, it’s that

  time doesn’t exist

  in the spiritual dimension; because

  time and space apply

  to physical bodies, but the universe

  is much more than that;

  because in the spiritual dimension

  time is one and so

  it’s not really like a highway at all

  but like a parking lot,

  all you have to do to get a new life

  is walk to the edge

  and jump off;

  Forest Glen, 1991 – Spring

  Because the room is not a room

  but an entire house and

  Don and I are the only ones in it;

  because it is still winter,

  and the black cast-iron stove

  doubles as a fireplace,

  around which both of us shiver;

  because it is early morning

  and the hills are a mosaic

  of white-robed spruce

  rolled in snow like rounds

  of cotton glass, so soft

  I imagine myself a giant

  rolling over them;

  because that which keeps you warm

  also cuts; because Don

  insists we lie naked together,

  for shared bodily warmth,

  and my body is small enough to be

  enfolded in his arms;

  because his cock gets in the way,

  presses against the small

  of my back and it annoys me;

  because I say so, and he

  turns away and takes the blankets

  with him; because I

  pull him back; because soon

  enough it is morning,

  there’s a fire roaring in the stove

  downstairs, its thick,

  black pipes shuddering from the

  sudden heat, and tea,

  blistering hot even with mittens,

  is already whistling

  in the kettle; because this is

  the best place in the world

  during the day when things are normal,

  a wilderness without

  judgement, only the usual dangers;

  because we all know

  what happens to a child lost

  in a forest at night;

  Forest Glen, 1991 – Spring

  Because the room is not a room

  but a place where many

  things happen — a room full of books,

  National Geographics

  stacked five deep along one wall,

  tiny, dusty objects from

  Don’s travels around the world,

  gods in all shapes and

  sizes in wood and onyx, leathered

  flesh and mounted fur;

  because I have nothing to do

  but read and it’s still

  just the two of us together —

  when the others come

  camp will start and my life

  will go back to normal;

  because it is spring, almost

  summer, and after that

  I will have to go back to school

  where rules are taught

  and knowledge is ruined;

  because I feel

  incredibly smart having heard

  Don read the entire

  Iliad aloud, having read Plato

  myself, wrapping

  a white sheet over my torso,

  having dressed

  as a Native American

  in a leather thong

  of my own making, which Don

  finds cute so he takes

  a picture, which I plan to burn

  as soon as it is developed;

  Forest Glen, 1991 – Summer

  Because the room is a field

  surrounded by trees

  where your enemies are waiting;

  because this is war

  and the red band on your arm

  tells everyone else

  who you are; because the arrow

  tip is blunt, but the bow

  is strong, you made it that way;

  because the game

  is to get the blue bandana from

  the other team’s fort

  on the other side of those trees,

  so you circle around

  and catch the blond boy hiding

  behind a bush, tap

  him with your bow so he lies down

  dead, no peal of horror;

  because you’re close enough

  to capture your prize,

  so you make a run for it but get

  tapped by R., which means

  you’re dead, which infuriates

  you; because you’re dead

  and you lie on the ground staring

  up at the trees waiting

  for Don’s whistle; because this

  is how enemies are made,

  and afterwards a fight breaks out,

  so Don makes us sit

  in a circle with a talking feather;

  because all manner of

  complaints come out, and when

  Don’s turn comes

  he puts the feather in his hair,

  and says, See, now

  don’t we all feel better? and asks

  Who wants to go into town

  tomorrow and buy candy

  at the general store?;

  Leesburg, 1991 – Fall

  Because there’s nothing so satisfying

  as ripping apart your

  own skin, watching layer after

  layer peel away until

  even pain has no origin; because

  the poison has seeped

  all over your hands, spread to your

  legs, your arms, your chest,

  covered your crotch so that it burns

  even worse than the rest;

  because you’re visiting your mother

  before school starts

  and it only took you one day

  to wander into a patch

  of poison ivy and now your trip

  is ruined: your face,

  your neck, a splotchy mess, so you

  can’t even go outside;

  because you can’t keep your hands

  out of your pants; because

  strangely, the inflamed flesh

  makes you aroused,

  so you scratch one itch to relieve

  the other; because

  the doctor chuckles when he sees

  your penis, swollen

  beyond belief, and prescribes a cream

  to relieve the swelling,

  but it’s too late, you’ve already

  refined your technique

  and another itch persists

  despite the return

  to normal dimensions —

  and interestingly,

  your method is just like Don’s,

  a two-finger pinch,

  though you lack his stamina

  in the wrist;

  1992

  Margaree Valley, 1992 – Summer

  Because the room is a one-room

  schoolhouse where Don

  keeps a telephone and bicycles

  and a large fast-freezer

  filled with boxes of Popsicles,

  blocks of meat

  and bag
s of frozen green beans

  five miles from the cabin

  in the woods where he teaches us

  to track animals and build

  sweat lodges and stretch deerskin

  into drums, how to plane

  wood by hand to make strong bows

  and which twigs to strip

  to make the straightest arrows;

  because there are more

  abandoned cabins in these hills

  than inhabited ones,

  so you learn to find your own;

  because to find the perfect arrow

  is to shoot it, to calculate the wind,

  to make a lean-to out of twigs

  and leaves and a long spine post

  heaved over a rock,

  to build a fire and a heat reflector,

  to play your drum in time

  with the others, and to know

  what roots to pick

  and which ferns are edible,

  each morning a hunt

  for what we might eat at lunch,

  and in the winter, to read,

  to think, to keep warm at night;

  Forest Glen, 1992 – Summer

  Because the room is not a room

  but a small clearing deep

  in the forest halfway up

  the mountain that rises

  behind our cabin; because I am

  alone here, having hiked

  farther into the hills behind

  Don’s cabin than I’ve dared

  to before; because I didn’t

  tell anyone at camp

  where I was going, I could stay

  out here all night, maybe

  even forever, and not see another

  person again; because

  even this lost I know I’m not alone,

  I feel the eyes of animals

  upon me, feel even the eyes

  of old Indian ghosts;

  because my skin is untempered

  by the weather, my spirit

  untested by a night without walls,

  without a roof, without

  blankets, with only the fire

  I’d have to make myself,

  with no one else, I question

  my ability to survive,

  and it annoys me; because this

  is a story I read to myself:

  a young brave who goes to the top

  of a mountain for three

  days and three nights to become

  a man; who has visions,

  who talks to his spirit animal,

  who soars over his village

  and sees his sisters down by the

  river and his mother

  hard at work, who sees the woman

  he will marry and the

  child they will have together,

  who will be his apple,

  who sees his entire future and how

  short the path is, both

  behind him and ahead of him,

  and resolves to live all of it,

  no matter what happens to him;

  because it is a child’s

  story, but I still want to be in it;

  because there is peace

  in these woods, too, and when I close

  my eyes I can hear the trees

  whispering, can hear insects

  chewing and trunks creaking

  and the drumbeat of birds flitting

  through the underbrush;

  because I wait until the late,

  low sun’s fingers ignite

  the forest’s litter, setting fire

  to carpets of moss,

  blazing fallen logs and crumbling

  stumps, until the ferns

  glimmer like fingered parasols,

  lighting even me

  with an ember of flame; because

  this is the moment

  I need to become someone else;

  because time doesn’t stand

  still, and neither does the sun;

  because soon it will be

  dark and difficult to find my way

  back; because the forest

  is growing denser and scarier

  even as the sky breaks

  into colors more beautiful than any

  I’ve ever seen before;

  because the sky’s so gorgeous

  I can’t look away, can’t

  bring myself to climb back down

  the boulder that lets me

  see clear across the valley;

  because I want to stay,

  I need this vision, I need to know

  what my spirit animal

  looks like, what my future has to say;

  because I sit on that rock

  until the sun crashes down

  into its own dirty rainbow

  and the hills across from me go black;

  Forest Glen, 1992 – Summer

  Because the room is a circle of light

  where two weeks later

  I am surrounded by deepest darkness;

  because the fire is low,

  so I stoke it and toss more

  leaves on it to make it

  rise up and glow; because I’ve made

  this fire myself; because

  I will spend the next two nights

  down by the river,

  waiting for my vision to appear;

  because I can hear

  the river roaring, unstoppable

  on its way to the sea;

  because I am thirsty; because

  I really have to pee;

  because I am too afraid to venture

  into what I cannot see;

  because I need this fire

  to ward off those

  who would eat me; because I want

  a vision, but visions

  don’t come to those who aren’t free

  of their bodies; because

  I am hungry, my bag of nuts

  reduced to dust which I lick

  until the plastic rips; because

  I can’t bring myself to

  extinguish the fire while I sleep,

  and so I wake up cold

  to still-warm cinders and a burn-

  hole in my sleeping bag;

  because the light this early has

  no source, it will be hours

  before the sun crests the lowest

  hill and dries the dew

  that covers every leaf and blade

  of grass in this valley;

  because the birds will not wait

  for the sun to grace the trees

  to flood the forest with their

  cacophony; because

  the mosquitos have already had

  their way with my body,

  and now the black flies

  are coming for their due;

  because this is the first part

  of my vision quest —

  I have to survive beyond my body

  in order to see what

  my eyes won’t allow me; because

  two days later, dizzy

  with hunger, I will see a hawk

  resting on the lowest branch

  of the closest tree; because it doesn’t

  move when I don’t move;

  because it disappears when I do;

  Santa Fe, 1992 – Summer

  Because the room is not a room

  but a hillside with a

  clear view of the only raincloud

  in the sky, a bulbous

  monstrosity with a crimson cap

  and a swollen purple

  belly rimmed by a belt of rich

  desert gold from all

  the dust kicked up around it;

  because it is the single

  most beautiful thing I have ever

  seen and I want Don

  to stop watching it with me;

  because we were

  almost caught the night before;

  because Don wanted us

 
to be alone so we could do more;

  because it got so cold

  we had no choice but to zip

  our sleeping bags together

  and strip off all our clothes

  for shared bodily warmth;

  because the next morning

  a forest ranger found us,

  huddled together like lovers,

  and hollered us awake

  from his truck, giving us just

  enough time to haul on

  our underwear and pants,

  and for Don to come up

  with a story about how his

  flashlight got lost and

  we couldn’t find our way back

  to the campsite so we

  had to build a fire — yes, we know

  we’re not supposed to —

  and so fire becomes the issue,

  how clever;

  because Don broke the rules,

  our rule was always

  no means no and yet I woke up

  with his mouth around me

  for the third time this trip;

  because he can’t help himself

  and is always contrite, so it seems

  better to focus on

  what he will buy me for breakfast;

  1993

  Tulum, 1993 – Spring

  Because the room is a beach hut

  in Mexico that takes us

  three hours to reach by bus;

  because we’re already

  sick of each other, with S. and J.,

  Don’s two students,

  already at one another’s throats

  and Don’s talking

  feather incapable of doing

  anything to resolve it;

  because J. can’t keep his hands off

  S. at night and S. can’t

  stop bitching about it; because

  to keep the peace

  I offer to share my bed with J.,

  even though I hate

  the way he smells, that little-kid

  stink — gooey, sweet;

  because he wants to feel me up

  and I finally let him;

  because I let him get me off

  one night and again

  the next, until I’ve had enough

  of it; because I’ve had

  enough of it but Don hasn’t,

  wants to see for himself

  what we do at night; because

  one day we return

  from the beach to find all the beds

  pushed together,

  which sends me into a rage

  at the three of them;

  because I wander the beach alone

  and run into the woman

  I met earlier, an entomologist

  twenty years my senior

  who offered to give me a lesson

  in human anatomy

  and removed her top just as Don

  called me away;

  because the woman is an expert

  in the mating habits

  of insects and lays out

  an impressive collection

  of beetles and flies on the sand,

  today’s catch,

  and lets me touch each one;

  because I hoped

  my sunglasses were dark enough