Gold Cure

Ted Mathys

• Publisher: Coffee House Press
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9781566895897
• Topic: Littérature
• Subtopic: Poésie américaine

Lustrous, tender, and expansive, Gold Cure moves from boomtown gold mines and the mythical city of El Dorado to the fracking wells of the American interior, excavating buried histories, legacies of conquest, and the pursuit of shimmering ideals. Ted Mathys skewers police brutality on the ribs of a nursery rhyme and drives Petrarchan sonnets into shale fields deep under the prairies. In crystalline language rich with allegory and wordplay, Mathys has crafted a moving elegy for the Anthropocene.

EL DORADO

El Dorado

With $18 cash, an Igloo cooler

and a compulsion to name,

7 miles beyond Muddy, population 100,

7 miles before Equality, population

unknown, through vaporous rain

falling gently like the Dow,

of sound mind and sound eyes

in the Year of the Rooster,

on a township road straight as a nail,

in work boots rubbed with mink oil,

past an irrigation lake, a big-box

trampoline park, and FREE GOLD

estimates at the pawnshop,

around a buckle in the slow Saline,

through the illusion of consensus,

asking nothing of the trees, in daylight

savings, in memory of poetry,

armed with syntactic categories,

prepositional and hungry,

I arrive in Eldorado, downstate Illinois.

•

The City of Daffodils has no daffodils.

It has Dad’s BBQ, and Dad is a pig.

His perverted smile is painted on plywood,

his overalls embroidered with Dad.

Dad holds a pulled-pork sandwich

in his hoof, a cannibal or fractal.

A couple in Carhartts fiddles on iPhones

over catfish and pickle spears.

Coke comes Regular or Big 32.

The server’s green headband

sprouts two boingy antennae,

the terminus of each

occupied by a plastic shamrock

and a mini pot of gold.

I remember it’s St. Patrick’s Day.

LIVE WELL, LOVE MUCH, LAUGH OFTEN

says the sign over the booth,

an admonition that Eldorado

needs no voice-over

to pin it together like a rivet,

that the kingdom of images

has its own conquistadors

who arrive in boats that fly no flag

to fire gild decrepitude into booty

in a complex alchemical process

that ends in a clean getaway

leaving locals to inhale

residual mercury vapor.

•

So I leave, just another

Pizarro fixing to return

from the rain forest basin

to face public opprobrium

with no gold or cinnamon

to show for looting and torturing

my way through an empty legend,

my provisions gone, men starved,

indigenous conscripts with smallpox,

the donkeys sick and the barge rotten.

But I run into road construction

on the road to Equality. A man

in a neon, knee-length raincoat

leans on a Caterpillar backhoe

with a sign that says SLOW.

So I double back to Eldorado

in my little raft of credulity.

An oil pump in the field

nods up and down approvingly.

Inland gulls forage at its base,

scattered like grains of wedding rice.

A deal on oxygen and acetylene

at the hardware store. A square

of particleboard on the church lawn

gives a blank pixel to Google Earth.

The digital billboard at Eldorado Spirits

offers video poker and 7-7-7 on the slots,

gold coins spinning like ballerinas

in egregious pirouettes.

On the town hall steps

a pair of wet, abandoned gloves.

One glove points to a plastic marquee

framed by burnt-out bulbs.

It is as empty as a thought bubble

above a cartoon explorer.

I fill it with three thoughts.

•

The first is that the boy

who ditched these gloves

now pumps the pedals of his Huffy

down a streak of asphalt by the library,

fuel-injected with the dysphoria

that he has just spent one slow afternoon

in a room with spars of golden light

tracing the soft floss of his friend’s pubic hair

and now might be going to hell.

The second is that the railroad hand,

who two centuries prior climbed a ladder

to paint the town name on the depot,

refused to let the town founders,

Samuel Elder and William Reed,

claim this hinterland as property,

so changed Elder-Redo to Eldorado,

an act of fake news with a paintbrush

that cleaved the sky in two, not east

to Appalachia and west to the Rockies,

but back to Emperor Atahualpa

strapped in the garrote,

having forfeited to his executioners

a ransom room ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• El Dorado
• Key to the Kingdom
• El Dorado
• Shale Plays
• Ring Cycle
• Acknowledgments & Notes
• Funder Acknowledgments
• The Publisher’s Circle of Coffee House Press