My mother forbad us to walk backwards. That is how the dead walk, she would say. Where did she get this idea? Perhaps from a bad translation. The dead, after all, do not walk backwards but they do walk behind us. They have no lungs and cannot call out but would love for us to turn around. They are victims of love, many of them.
“Voilà la Plaza and an array of vertical ties
Uh-oh Bomb-squad vans parked outside
I feel renegade and clairvoyant
amidst the secret securities
with doodads in their ears
Maybe it’s the President again
outside the St. Moritz
I pause at the lovely liatus
The sweet autumn clematis”
Maggie Nelson | “Carnegie Hall”