7
Time's strands writhe, whip-like in the sand,
each cracking free of the others.
So it seems on the ground,
but to the Eye Above
all appear wrapped around
one another, a single rope
turned from much hemp that
drags all men together from birth
to berths at which God deems
that they should rest.
Babes ride these snaking cords
as do the day's giants,
their destinies, all alike,
intertwined.
So it is divine behest that:
1) To a new abundance
young Kal-El falls,
as Wilson preaches
in Versailles' ancient halls;
while,
2) From Paris the President sails,
entering in triumph a capitol
where crouch his waiting foes; and,
The Kents clear a foyer corner
and an old bassinet becomes
the scene of Clark's nightly throes.
Dark dreams of rending worlds plague them:
The trauma burns away in small doses as
Sarah turns Clark
and pats his sweaty, cold head; while,
body expiring with his term,
withering Woodrow,
scorning senatorial amendments,
slays his Treaty by decree from his bed.
His wife will govern by whim in his stead
until a "Normalcy" that will flow
fluccidly into Teapot Dome flushes in.
But, for now, Wilson licks his wounds
and retreats to a house down the street,
thence to fade into a coffin
that will be laid in the dust
in tandem with Bryan's.
Then all the of lions
of the Progressive Age
will have stopped roaring,
and the child who will soar
as the Man of Tomorrow
can stop pouring out all his woes.
The fever breaks.
It is Nineteen Hundred and Twenty Four.
The fires within Kal's frame
of steely flesh recede
and a mock humanity prevails.
It is a cage
whose bars he will bend
when the time to mend
a torn nation unveils
itself on history's stage
and the source of his fame
stands revealed.
Let him, until then, be concealed
on a lonely farm, where labor makes
for a fine education;
to a taste of which
we now hastily proceed.
Ahead two years to '26,
where, while the cities are heeding
the trumpets of Hooch and Swing,
in the sticks they hold
to an older rhythm.
Clark's eighth "birthday" is typical,
mostly spent in Ma's vegetable
patch hoeing dirt, ripping out weeds,
poking deep holes and dropping seeds --
all at a speed that's natural
(for him), and no-one sees to call
the thing (or him) odd. He is strong
and quick -- he crushes rocks that lie
in the way of planting --
and the days are growing longer,
so there is more to do:
milk their few cows (done at sunrise),
help Pa with the plowing
{"How he pushes!"
Eben exclaims, "Better than two oxen!";
then he pauses, swallows enthusiasm,
and the memory of his impromptu
adoption of eight years ago,
before he starts to wonder
about forces his nature tells him
men were not meant to know};
and help Ma in the kitchen
with kneading their daily dough.
Food fascinates him. His eyes,
drawn to a basket on the counter,
fix on an apple; they describe
the arc of its crown, its slick amber
skin flecked with lines of green and white
that all together glisten bright.
An old carrot, rustic orange hide
tapering down from base to tip,
sits next to it; he licks his lips.
Then Ma caws,
"You'll spoil your supper, Clark,"
and hands him a bucket.
Outside again.
It's the opposite of milking:
gravity's against him, but
the well's got no feelings, so
he needn't pump as gently
as with the tender cattle
on whose udders his hands
must move softly,
like we would pet hen feathers.
The black handle, encrusted by rust,
already bears the imprint of his grasp;
his fingers, like an owl's claws as they grip
a field mouse's throat, have formed the iron.
As water fills the tin, he looks in
to it and slips back a week to when
the thawing ice
transfixed him for hours.
He thought he saw...
some half forgot icescape,
something...familiar.
Ma rings the dinner bell.
He and Pa wash at the well
and go into the house together.
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