I am folding My fears and Putting them Away. Like worn-out Garments, patched and Faded: finally, They’re soft and Broken-in. I’ve out Grown them. I’ve Grown till my Cages fit as Supple as A skin, a skin That is warm And expands Toward a touch. Chains put round A tree, to Support it, slowly Strangle the Thickening trunk. My Chains were only Made out of me.
People are having dogs instead of Children these days, I say. I wish they would stop having And start doing, says Dee. I finish peanut-buttering the Last sandwich and lick the Swiss Army knife, almost cutting my Tongue. The children have Their lunch and sip pop as We mention baby-sitting co-ops, Watching the frisbees fly. The gospel music goes on inside, Majestic dark women swaying to Music rippling out of their souls. A sister dances her holy dance in The aisle, shouting “God is! God is!” I wish I had been raised up in a Black Church, I say. Me too, says Dee, both of us survivors Of convent schools. We discuss the futility of singing Gregorian chant in midnight Drunken parking lots, searching for The car. The Great Spirit has a cunt, I say. Dee’s laugh has her on her Back, knees up and feet Stomping the grass. I am pleased. Soon the children are back, Bored and thirsty. Christopher Has grievously scraped his Arm on a tree. Eventually We float out to the quad And send the hot pink frisbee Flying along a three-cornered Circle.
Poem for Two Women Poets Dead
and Those Alive
1 “There is a death baby for each of us.” Ann Sexton she wrote it out in a school book still we could not believe and she didn’t care somehow in a car exhaust gas maybe surely suicidal light as chalk on the blackboard we took up our stories and pens alive having said you were dead
you promised glass frozen eyes snow flake hands flicking dust from your hips you promised to be again and again the fat jonah-leftover for the whale’s pica teeth the big sellout warm stink of death instead appealed to you bone dull lullaby
they will pull you for years from your wreckage make mad money from your remains some will see your babies under every winter tree 2 “Does not my heat astound you. And my light.” Sylvia Plath there was a stink from that v of her body slippery among smiles she bled poems wiped up her life with words familiar as a feminine napkin i don’t care if you like it read one or two there is her ruby stain on you just try to rub it off
she lay herself down in the warm womb stove leave her her splendid mistake we are a baby another bad check perhaps a poem away from it 3 we have the art under our scabs these slivers in our heart are wolves teeth tears calsified we are not ruled by the moon it does not remind us of dinner china or vaginas we do not bleed out brains on a monthly basis
poems our isadora’s scarf poems our ice breath, death breath fire to spit bits of us like one would crop a photograph down to the nail having touched your lips to it you may recognize it mine but with all the white half moons you can’t be sure
Hesitant, the paper bird Like a shot hawk Dives at the lull And flutters earthward lame — Pull tight, my fairlings, run — Let the bitter gust Lift up its trinket, Swoop it asky — Pinned by the faint fierce drag Of the wind’s catenary, A tailed spot in heaven Free but a length of twine. Fly up, my fledglings, Catch the courage Of the life-wind Blowing you from my reel. Yet once played out, though the wind Fail and drop you Toward the bare spiked trees — Though my heart’s flesh Be torn with yours, And the cord’s faint image Stretch from womb to heart — There is no hauling in — Soar free or dip and crash — The string is cut.
Memoirs of Snow White
The apple, as Eve’s, Perfect in symmetry, Took my eye from the first. Even the Hag’s drooling laugh And prodding fingers On my torso’s flesh Could not hold me back. Why should I not feed, I ask you, When stout tradition made it mine? Why spoil a good story Or alter a single line? So, with a hale appetite, I ate it up, Not spurning the core, Both peel and pulp. But the charm played me false And historians recount me wrong: Now I never sleep. The Prince never comes.
there’s nothing more to see last night silver frost crept through the land today the day-old bunnies lay frozen like stones in a cloud of white fur everything disappears the rabbit hops twice sniffs her young pink pomegranate seeds stare back there’s nothing more to see tiny spirits disappearing into watchful winter trees awake to the morning the bleating of hungry goats
Living at the Edge
isn’t easy. Still, I prefer it. My dragons they’re friendly beasts some days. They wear tennis shoes, smoke Gauloises they watch the evening news. They speak to me in even tones: Girl, we’re taking over. Fine, I say. I’ll go. I’ll bake a cake. I’ll write postcards to my friends today. Thanks a lot. It won’t last long, I know. See, they’re dragging out the broken glass now. Kisses for your fingers, they purr. Ice cubes for your red hot veins. They rub it in. Those dragons, they know how to win. The edge is here. I search for paper clues in the Herald, anything, anywhere. Smoke dope. Read my horoscope. I’m earth. I’m dirt. I must avoid travelling in planes. Lemon bleach, I read, takes out stubborn stains. Why not mine? Express yourself in spices, lady. I will. I am chives. I am the marjoram. The women’s news — that’s me. I’m stained. I’m ink. At odds with death, a dwelling place, if you will, for these dragons, their fierce hot breath, their stink.