Signature Editions

The central metaphor of the collection The Octopus and Other Poems is the search for new life in the universe—to find something beyond ourselves, and simultaneously to be “found.”

The tension between wanting to understand, and giving in to the mysteries of the universe, culminates in the long poem “The Octopus,” in which former lovers debate the merits of searching for extraterrestrial life.

He considers it a futile and wasteful endeavour, particularly since there are “alien” life forms we don’t understand right here on earth, like the octopus.

She, on the other hand, comes to realize her enjoyment of the search isn’t about aliens at all, but about the pleasure of simply hoping for something new, something spectacular.

In the end, she believes that it’s the hope of the search that matters, not finding or being found, but looking.

Right now, the Voyager shuttles 1 and 2 are pushing deeper
into known space. They will, like so many great American
home runs, go far beyond the fence, across the street
and through a window. They will never be recovered.

In a laboratory in Pasadena, at tables cluttered
with cold cups of coffee and dot-matrix printouts,
men interpret what Voyager sees: the spotty volcanic
surface of Io, the irregular shape of Amalthea.

Voyager carries greetings
from Earth. Simple diagrams
of how our genes
spool. Of the body of a man. Of where
we can be found,
like the map in the mall:
We Are Here (note how
the third dot in line is given
more emphasis, stationed slightly above
the other eight).

Also presented are rows of numbers,
the elements of us:

hydrogen, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen
and phosphorus

the modest recipe of our shared life.

I wish the world’s memories well.
I have my own secrets—shoeboxes
and albums full of scribblings,
tokens from misplaced
friends and lovers.
Everything I keep is paper,
already disintegrating.

But while I’m here
I’ll think of you, imagine
you with your newest love
who looks so much like you.

The two of you get steamed up like clamshells—
half-moon arcs on the seabed.
When you are both concave
you come together, disappear from view;
when one is concave, one convex,
you form a perfect circle.

*

It is amazing what thoughts
we let slip in and out like mosquitoes
through the window.

*

Along with the math of us, Voyager lugs
gold-plated albums etched with our essences:
photographs, sounds heard on earth—in nature
and on highways and in the womb. Greetings
in fifty-four languages, and enough music
for some all-night cosmic dance-a-thon.

Our lives orbit discretely these days, seldom intersect.

Now we trade thoughts on paper—
long distance chess,
one move at a time.

You tell me you can’t condone the reckless hope
of finding some other life out there.
Can’t fathom the waste.