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TRACKS, FOR A BOURGEOIS WOMAN by J. A. Emanuel In Alpine snow, cross—country skis uneasily at rest to imitate the guide, she looked back suddenly, surprised to feel the downward mountain pulsing in her eyes: "a mystical experience" (Wordsworth himself had said), this blank—ribbed spectre widening into her past foundationless as sky whirled upside down-- only clouds to slow her feet, no gripping path except the dimly rutted trail behind them, its whiteness rearranged by bluer air. A trance-like quiet palmed away her friend's bright talk from filmy space the guide's new voice spread through like quick-dry brushstrokes re-coloring the portrait she had sat for her life: "Perhaps you'd like," he said, "to make tracks of your own." The sunshine-frame of it braced the instant taken by her waking skis to plunge, her willing body following, her shining senses leaping downhill to clinch the chance, the dare, exhilaration blinded to the rock that rose and jerked her headlong underneath the snow-- a trap-door disappearance, a swallowing. Panic pushed her friend-- guide already there-- to the nothingness above her, anxiety a shrilling vapor until a rosy—tasseled cap, wrenched over dripping eyes and soggy grin, poked through the gleaming snow. In three seconds she had tracked a blue peak far beyond the friendly tugs and well—tried arm that brushed and straightened her. She stood up--rearranged around her changeless core-- whisking off her mind a diamond phrase, unsaid, about the hole she'd made, twice her size in drawing rooms-- and deeper.
DEADLY JAMES (For All the Victims of Police Brutality) by J. A. Emanuel The killer-cops, the San Diego three, What made them think you deadly, James? I take their guilty heads into my arms; I cradle them, my tendons hush their eyes, illume them to see the years roll back: your little window, James, unsealed, your palomino rocking horse, his glassy eyes unquiet when the sudden blood that splashed his ivory mane told you the table knife you sucked on was different, could also spit upon the tawny rug breathtaking tracks-- deadly, James. I embrace their heads more tightly; their veins bulge to understand you, James, you, hardly old enough to run, dancing solitary in the Brooklyn rain, your older playmates dashed from, your arms and lips and laughter reaching up for all the sky could pour upon the rivers capering inside you-- deadly rivers, James? I hug their heads with strength I had saved for you, James; their eyeballs darken as they strain with me to find you practicing your saxophone, lying in the quilted heaps of your bed poked up around your stocking feet--the littered outpost of that father wilderness you made your room, “NO ENTRY” blazed across the door to guard your heartbeats when your golden horn believed its one-man note-- that wild, sweet loneliness you cried-- beguiling neighbors into forgiveness before you fumbled scales beginners know. You began at the top, James, Deadly. I clasp their heads more fiercely, empowered by the memory of you stranded where they bled you down into your smallest drop, gunhammers cocked and nighsticks sinewed-- all three bewildered to find beauty defiantly beyond them, a tiny, dark-brown flower: the grain of you James, erect, watered back to momentary life by your manful tears. In my iron arms their heads turned dry, drop hollow to the ground ... If your new, unearthly wisdom bids you, Raise them. But whenever you feel blood again, or rain, or music, pray your innocence be deadlier, James, much deadlier.
Fair copy of poem written in Paris, 11—13 Oct. 1984 LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT (A TEENAGE PARTY) by J. A. Emanuel As drumbeats raised the horn that stretched into the air, glances of the boy, the girl touched one another; shy, they saw the music climbing, felt its scent-- as from a lightly perfumed soap slipping perfectly (no hands upon it) from its silver wrapper. Their smiles inhaled it, balanced it between them. A word he almost said upheld his share; her portion answered, a gesture given him to please. Theirs, they took it in their arms, this cleanliness, and danced.

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