Watershed and; The Last Word and; O'er

Abstract

Watershed and; The Last Word and; O'er Zaffar Kunial (bio) Watershed From Minneapolis, ripplesgrow. And grow. Minneapolis.That polis whispers of policebut speaks of the city, the sameword going back. Minnehahais Dakota for waterfall—chains of water, in a shockingdrop. In the suburbs of a wordare old outpourings, arrestedsounds, but there is no h nowin Minnehapolis. Cityof waters. Quiet as a ghost,that h. Quiet as watching clouds.In the state of Minnesota,state of sky-reflecting waterwaters ripple wider, widerwith the Mississippi River.If breath has a letter, it's thatsound huh—the soft h at the endof breath—breath like a dry river.Not as hard as streets, nowhallowed, rules that ring hollow,but the h that alters what standsbefore it and makes hard endingsnot stop but breathe on, like the hin watershed or the h in worth [End Page 57] or the h in death or the hin birth or the h in "Mother—Mother," last words of a Britishsoldier, on the ground, near to death—is it wrong for me to go there?—from the wetlands of French trenchesto Minneapolis, watercity—from a century backto a locked-down May, two years back—from a man who's white to a manwho's black. Should I go quiet?—as a cloud in water, quietas that old lost h in the heartof Minnehapolis, or sound outlike the h in human. Waterwears the uniform of chevronsand ripples. Isn't it the jobof ripples to move outwardand wider? Isn't it the jobof rivers to enter othermouths? Matter and mother are oneword, going back. Is one "Mother,Mother" or "Mama! Mama! Mama!"—a grown man's cry to the first source,the birth of breath—not the same cry,not a matter of the same worthas anotheras anotheras anotheras another [End Page 58] The Last Word In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, in spite of things silently gone out of mind and things violently destroyed —william wordsworth, Preface to the Lyrical Ballads All my life I've listened for noise suddeningdownstairs. Signifying nothing. Or mattering.Once more I'm on the landing, at a late hourfrom that hall to this, down carpeted airand now at now's open door, the loud brinkof our first living room. Thunk. Thunk.Dad's on the sofa, fist pounding the table.The low legs jump, the glass ashtray trembles.The mother of all battles has begun.Dad, it's late, it's not fair on us, on Mum.She needs to wake up early. "Son, the bastards,look what they are doing." A cigarette in Dad'smouth, the ashtray like a cymbal to the table'sdrum. Thunk. Upstairs the family Bible sits quietly with the Quran, huge and high.Dad, the whole house is shaking. In a few hoursI've got school. He turns from the telly. "Son,will you write a letter?" A what? "To Guardian."This is our first live war. I hear the wordsresolution and air raid and avoidcivilian casualties and hope he'll forgethis question. On the television set an elephantsits. The ashtray is still catching nothing. [End Page 59] Dad's fist lands at the sight of a jet. Thunk.Through smoke, says his school was bombed from the air.School stopped forever. Thunk. He hides in the river.Miles off I put my hand on his shoulder.The burning matter of Mum needing to sleep and wake up early to teach. A betting slipblushes near the paper on the sofa. A smallred pen from Ladbrokes like the one in my schoolblazer. Our coal fire. But from this special reporton the night war started in the Gulf, good night.And now the weather. "Son, you will write?"It will feel raw in the east as the windsfreshen up but will feel much milderin the...