East of our maps, Hic sunt serpentes…Here There Be Serpents coiled into currents, baring fangs of wake, venomous rips whirling around the throat of our Island, to skirring, to choke. Here’s a small island just off the coast of another small island that itself is just off the coast of an enormous country known as America — situated in space as in time just opposite the enormous green goddess with that torch of hers and that book, too, from whose pages our maps have been ripped. Manhattan’s a mammoth compared with this neighboring clod, this island we call it though it’s barely an isle, more like a breathless speck split nearly in two by a sip of water, into tablets, with a sullied tongue pronouncing profaned names, forked baybrackish, sundered churning, churlish. A slip, it once had accommodated the docking of vessels, ships like the Vaterland, the mighty Leviathan, the stalwart Amsterdam, and the Westerland, the Gellert, the Thingvalla, the Mohawk, the entire Moravia fleet out of Hamburg, the Norddeutscher Lloyd’s Kronzprinz Friedrich Wilhelm, the SS Whatever on down the wavylined, watermarked Manifest of Manifests, all of them descendants of the colonizing Saint Catherine (patroness saint of libraries), which steamed in the very first stock: immigrants who’d intended only to arrive, up top; down below, emigrants who’d intended only to leave; up top, immigrants who’d thought only of the future; down below, emigrants who’d thought only of the past…immigrants who’d honored opportunity, emigrants who’d prayed their lives away to the historical failure of gods ever older and dumber — arriving all day and through the night, too, in these ships and impromptu brigs and barques, their steerage made democratic meat, shipments if only for the slaughter that is the new, always, the lavish luxurious quarantine that is this particular exile. An enfranchised garage, a Cadillac parked deep in the crotch. Judge not lest, though — after all, they knew their mythologies, their archetypes, the windy symbols and the manifold, though onesunned, doldrums of fate: having crossed the river that is the ocean to die here, they’d lacked only the coins to blind their eyes, which would undoubtedly be earned in due time — found on a sidewalk, in a sewer, under the tongue of a wifemouth, in the pocket of her professional “father.”
A slip iced, frozen into a field, landscaped with salt and sand into a neat square that separates the Great Hall from the squat ruinous barracks beyond — now housing the surviving firstborns, all of them male, menschs ingathered from all the world over to attain the protection of this primal estate: the Hospital rustjointed, the Commissary burntover; the tumuli of outlying buildings intended in their conversion for the forgiveness of staff, the insensibility of freight, crammed atop this fill like centuries of graves of centuries, necropolis rocks atop stones atop trash cramped atop the swell of this speckle, an isle sliced down the middle as if gutted for hidden treasure, which is what — only water, frozen below the lives stilled, the shocked hearts and minds of those latest arrivals still being received for the processing. Huddled hassles burning to earn free, tempesttossed Lazaruses, poor, not for long, tired, they’re always, regime export whored over to this teeming shore for a purgatory of examinations, questions, questions, sessioning questions, exams, What’s your name, your date and place of birth, have you been promised a job here, have you been promised a husband here, what do you do, are you an anarchist? these days, how can you not be; do you happen to believe in a God…followed up by a host of hearings, appeals, held in the presence of interpreters American now for maybe a week, directing their pleas at the Officers who seemed themselves gods but not to be believed in only to fear, stationed chalkfingered, busily moustachioed at the door — which is not golden gleaming but whitewashed; its shine, it’s said, comes off with blood.
A rumor was, you enter America through the mouth of the Green Eve — the exit for New York is through her, you know where.
It’d been said that Columbus, the first of their kind ever to schlep to these shores, had been buried in her pedestal, which is the shul upon which Liberty stands.
