LEARNING TO SPEAK:
A COLLECTION OF POEMS
by
DANIEL DREW BUTTERWORTH, B.A., M.A.
A DISSERTATION
IN
ENGLISH
Submitted to the Graduate Faculty
of Texas Tech University in
Partial Fulfillment of
the Requirements for
the Degree of
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
Approved
August, 2001
Copyright 2001, Daniel Drew Butterworth
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I wish to thank a number of people for their dedication and support during the
completion of this dissertation: my wife, Paulette, for her patience and encouragement;
Dr. Walt McDonald for his influence upon me during the early stages of my development
as a writer; my grandmother, Mary Lou Osbum, and my parents, stepparents, sisters and
stepsiblings for their longsuflFering while speaking with me about writing in general;
Todd Heldt and Gale AcufFfor their poetry advice andfiiendship;Dr. Jill Patterson and
Dr. Stephen Graham Jones for their input and willingness to serve on my dissertation
committee; Dr. Hansel Burley for teaching me much about teaching and agreeing to
appear as the Graduate School representative for my dissertation defense; and Dr.
William Wenthe, whose devotion to helping me become the best writer I can be has made
this poetry collection possible, and who has encouraged me to persevere in my studies
despite any difficvilties or hardships I experienced along the way.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ii
ABSTRACT
v
CHAPTER
I.
INTRODUCTION
1
II.
LEARNING TO SPEAK: A COLLECTION OF POEMS
Part 1: Losing His Voice
12
13
Tracheotomy: Losing His Voice
15
Digging Up the Backyard
16
Field Mouse
19
Turkey Vultures
21
Into the Hollow: Malheur National Forest, Oregon
23
Curses
25
Part 2: A Few Words From Babylon
27
Bird Eating Spider: First Love
29
Spring Cleaning
31
Jokers Wild
33
Pesto and Zeke
36
Advanced Individual Training
38
Sea Otters
41
Part 3: Learning To Speak
42
44
Fog
m
Extrafoxy
45
What You Don't Know About My Mood This Morning
47
Pigeon
49
Boomerang
51
Blazes
53
After the Exams
56
Part 4: Speaking For The Dead
57
Canyon Creek Falls
59
Forget Me Not
64
Stepfather and Son
65
Song Sparrow
67
Insomnia
70
Within Birdshot
73
Mabel
75
78
Part 5: Laughing Out Loud
Sonnet Ending with a Moment of Silence
80
Grovmg Popcorn
81
Spiders Make Us Dance
83
Assembly
85
Laughing on the Outside
87
89
WORKS CITED
IV
ABSTRACT
A collection of poetry should be a cohesive body of work in which each poem is a
piece of a greater whole, the collection. Each of the poems in Learning to Speak: A
Collection of Poems can stand alone on its own merits yet also represents a portion of a
larger story the dissertation has to tell: the loss of the speaker's voice (both literal and
figurative) and a progression through a series of life circumstances and situations that
leads to the regaining of that voice. The intention is to show that whUe the speaker in the
poems encounters a variety of difficult life circumstances, each circumstance is a step
toward the development of a more powerful, expressive instnmient of communication. A
short introduction to the poetry relates my own understanding of voice in poetry and my
application of that imderstanding to the collection of poems.
The poetry collection is organized intofiveparts. Part One, "Losing His Voice,"
contains poems about childhood experiences related to the speaker's early loss of voice
through physical restriction, followed by a regaining of the physical voice. The speaker's
voice then becomes increasingly subdued due to a variety of inhibiting circumstances.
The second part strengthens the speaker's loss of voice by showing how the emergence of
sexual feelings, with all of its accompanying emotional turmoil, can inhibit one's powers
of expression. The third part, "Learning to Speak," contains sk poems that show the
speaker obtaining a greater imderstanding of communication in relationships and a
seventh poem intended as a bridge, a kind of graduation ceremony, into thefinaltwo
parts of the collection.
Part Four, "Speaking for the Dead," describes the speaker's continued use of
voice, having grown to the extent that he can express himself in terms of experiences he
has had with death while articulating some hardships those who have passed on suffered
while they were alive. Thefinalpart is intended to give the reader a sense of release
through laughter and expressing appreciation for the life experiences that shaped the
speaker's voice. Together, these poems represent a somewhat fictionalized
autobiography that reveals the complex process of learning when and how to speak for
oneself and for others.
VI
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
Someone asked Yangqi, "When the founder of Zen came from
India to China, he sat facing a wall for nine years—^what does this mean?"
Yangqi said, "As an Indian, he coiildn't speak Chinese." (Yangqi 43)
Like the Zen master who required several years to develop an understanding of
the Chinese language, when I came to the study of poetry, I had little linguistic
foundation upon which to build, having come to Texas Tech's graduate English program
with a backgroimd primarily in clinical psychology. Unlike the Zen master, I did not
choose to remain silent; instead, I wrote dozens of poems—^most unfit to be read, let
alone printed. Remaining unpublished for a few years was the only silence I endured,
and for that silence I am thankful. Several editors saved mefromthe future
embarrassment of recognizing one of my own stilted creations in an otherwise reputable
journal. The student of Zen can afford the luxury of silence; the student of creative
writing cannot—^must not—^if he or she wishes to develop a unique artistic voice.
Learning to Speak is, at least in part, about the process of developing one's voice
as an artist and, perhaps more generally, about learning to speak out both for oneself and
for others. I view these as two distinct learning processes, imderstanding that each
process should, and often inevitably does, inform the other. Because I believe that the
best way to convey this learning process is through developing afirst-personspeaker
about whom I have intimate knowledge, most of the poems in this collection contain
situations and characters based on my own life experiences. Joan Aleshire writes, "As a
reader, I've always been drawn to poems where the first person speaker is
indistinguishable from the poet, because those poems give access, on an elemental level,
to intimate experience" (29). Basing my poems on personal experiences helps me to
create such a speaker, and I hope that this foundation will have the desirable effect of
giving access to the speaker's ejq)eriences and insight into his vulnerabilities.
Building poems around personal experiences poses challenges beyond merely
putting the words down so that they sound good. Edward M. White writes in his
introduction to The Writer's Control of Tone that "[t]he challenge for a writer dealing
with personal experience is to treat his subject so that it has more than private meaning"
(k), and I continually remind myself that it is my obligation as a writer to make these
poems about personal experiences involve the reader in some way—^to teach or to reveal
truth in a manner that is fresh and interesting. This desire to reveal truth in fresh and
interesting ways is the reason why I must use my imagination to transform or embellish
my personal experiences, turning them into poems that the reader can take part in more
fully. On this subject, William Carlos Williams writes the following:
The imagination is the transmuter. It is the changer. Without imagination
life cannot go on, for we are left staring at the empty casing where truth
lived yesterday while the creature itself has escaped behind us. It is the
power of mutation which the mind possesses to rediscover the truth. (213)
I want my poems to do more than tell stories, to be more than mere shells that hint at the
possibility of truth; I want them to make readers examine their own experiences, to be
living laboratories in which readers can develop their own truths, can bring their own
imaginations to bear on what is written.
Because they are based on my personal experiences, these poems represent
various stages of my own growth as a poet and as an individual. The actual events
portrayed have beenfictionalizedto varying degrees, and some are infeetmade up
entirely, but they closely parallel the development of my voice. The New Princeton
Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics describes voice in terms of sound:
To stress voice in discussions of poetry may be simply a reminder of the
large extent to which poetry depends on sound. The qualities of vocal
sounds enter directly into the aesthetic experience of performance, of
poetry readings, but no less do those sounds resonate in the 'inner ear' of a
fully attentive silent reading. (1366)
For me, the idea that poetic voice is primarily afimctionof sound is inextricablefromthe
fact that it is also a function of character. While 1 try to capture a particular tone of voice
by incorporating certain sounds and sound effects in poems, I do so in order to enhance
the character of each poem's speaker, to intensify the speaker's personality so that
readers will identify with him.
The speakers in my poems should come across not only as narrators, but as
human beings that the reader can rely on to be honest, intimate and vulnerable. I want
my speakers to be truthful in a sense that they speak what they believe to be true at the
time they are speaking and, as a poem progresses, often discover a greater sense of truth
because of this honesty. Joan Aleshire writes that "[t]he effectiveness of the speaker lies
in his or her vulnerability, when the T makes no claims to knowledge outside its own
experience. This clear limitation, this bias can convince the reader that the speaker is
telling the truth—at least at the moment of composition" (29). Most of the poems in this
collection are written in thefirstperson because I believe that point of view best reflects
the tone of a truthful speaker. Thus, in a poem like "Field Mouse," the speaker can
describe the actions of Keary O'Malley and the effects those actions have on himself, but
he cannot determine the motives behind those actions; likewise for the fether's actions in
"Turkey Vultures" and Norberry's actions in "Assembly." Retaining focus on the
speaker's point of view invokes the sense of authority Carl Dennis writes about:
"Because of the smaller compass of thefirst-personpoem, its authority usually results
lessfromthe slow building up of particular perceptions thanfromthe direct presenting of
a character we can trust" (66). If the speaker can be trusted to maintain focus on his own
perceptions then he can be trusted to be telling the truth when relating the intimate details
of his personal experiences, insofar as he understands that truth "at the moment of
composition." And, a direct result of telling the truth about intimate ejqjeriences is a
sense of vulnerability.
In a comment about his poem "Gathering the Bones Together," Gregory Orr
writes that "We seem, as people, unable to talk about the events that most deeply affect
our lives. I think poetry can do that, that's one of the reasons it's important" (30). 1
agree with that statement, which is another reason why I write about personal
experiences. However, I recognize that some experiences are universal, like fear and
death, or nearly universal, like marriage and divorce, while other experiences, like
growing up in a Pentecostal-Evangelical Christian home or watching on television one's
hometown threatened by wildfires, relate more specifically to my ovm life. In order to
write intimately about all of these personal experiences, I have felt it necessary to
envision what my reading audience might be like. That is—outside members of my
dissertation committee, who wdll necessarily examine my work with critical objectivity,
and outside family and fiiends, who wall likely read my work with sympathetic bias—
who else might want to read poetry based largely on my personal experiences? To
answer this question, I consider the words of Michael Ryan: "The poet's idea of his
audience (which may or may not be accurate) is flised to his idea of his cultural role
(which may or may not be realistic) and thereby influences and sometimes even generates
his poetry" (163). In order to understand my audience, then, I must first consider what I
believe to be my cultural role as a poet.
I understand my own cultural role as a poet to be similar to the role all poets play,
which is, aside from the assumption that poems should provide some sense of pleasure
for the reader, that poets fimction primarily to create poems that reflect society back to
itself W. D. Snodgrass's "The Men's Room in the College Chapel," for example,
reflects the ironic defiance of the unconventional world of the men's room against the
conventional world of the chapel that contains the men's room. Snodgrass compares the
writings on the men's room walls to cave paintings used "to summon their animal, dark
gods" and the early Christians' catacomb writings—"pious mottos of resistance" that
defied the Roman persecution of Christianity. Thus, Snodgrass shows the reader that at
the heart of society is a desire—^perhaps a need—^to express oneself by deposing societal
convention. More personal poems, for example Jorie Graham's "Wanting a Child," also
create reflections of society, perhaps m part because the reader's own background comes
to bear on the speaker's personal experiences. In this way, poems are like mirrors. It is
not the function of a mirror to change the person looking into it, but to reflect what is
there so that the person can decide for him- or herself whether or not to make changes.
Likewise, the poet can create poems that reflect some bare aspect of society, but the poet
cannot expect society to change simply because he or she has reflected an accurate
image. That onus is on society itself
My role as a poet, then, is to create mirrors against which society can see itself
and while I recognize that itidividuals must decide for themselves what to do with my
mirrors, I try to make those mirrors as accurate as possible in order to increase the
chances that positive change might occur. My target audience is people who are willing
to become vulnerable for a moment—^those who seek an intimate connection with
someone else, who are not afitiid to listen, to learn, and to seek personal and societal
change. For example, the primary focus of a poem like "Advanced Individual Training"
is to draw the reader into the naive speaker's inner conflict and to thereby show the
reader how the speaker develops a more complex and mature sense of responsibility from
that experience. By drawing the reader into the experience, I hope to achieve some
secondary aims. I want young men to read "Advanced Individual Training" and come
away not merely sad about the situation, but filled with a desire to view and treat women
with dignity and respect. I want young women to finish that poem and understand that
they deserve better than the shameful lack of respect and decency exhibited by men in the
poem. In short, I want people to come away from my poems with a profound sense of
personal identification with the speaker that leads them to consider the larger social
impUcations that the poems raise. For a poem to create this sense of identification, it
needs to speak to those who are open to its message. Those people are my audience.
Now that I have identified an audience, what can 1 do to make that audience
appreciate my personal experience beyond the surface-level voyeuristic thriU of the
story? One method for deepening the reader's appreciation of the poem is to incorporate
various techniques and tools designed to make poems sound interesting. John Drury
writes that "poetry gives pleasure first, then truth, and its language is charged, intensified,
concentrated" (5). Rhyme, rhythm, metaphor, irony, and other tools of poetry are
primarily devices for enhancing listening pleasure, but they are also used to charge,
intensify and concentrate meaning in poems. In terms of creating meaning, the naain
reason for using poetic techniques is to introduce complexity; for example, metaphorical
language and careflil diction can create multiple layers of meaning in a poem, giving the
poem texture and a greater sense of purpose. 1 am thinking here of poems like Anne
Sexton's "Briar Rose," where the story of Sleeping Beauty becomes a metaphor for
childhood sexual abuse, deepening the reader's perception of that abuse by positioning it
within the language of an othenvise innocent fairy tale.
It is important to recognize that, while complexity can add texture and depth of
meaning in a poem, complexity should not be considered an end unto itself Reginald
Gibbons explains:
A poem's complexity as an instance of language doesn't in itself
reveal very much; a very poor poem can be full of tropes and highly
organized rhythms and other complications or turbulences of language,
and a very good poem can appear to be spontaneously uttered and almost
simple.
But in many poems that we regard as good there is a sense, rather
than of already worked language, of the active work of bringing feeling,
thought, and language into an unusual intensity of meaningfiilness and
into an especially responsive representation of what we are coming to feel
and think; both writer and reader are discovering what it is that the
language in the poetic lines is coming to mean. (188-189)
The reason, then, that Sexton's "Briar Rose" works so well is not simply that it is
complex, but that it uses complexity to tap into intense thoughts and feelings. It forces
the reader to actively engage with the poem's process of revelation, leading the reader on
the same path of discovery followed by the poet; the same process that gave more
profound meaning to the story of Sleeping Beauty for the poet provides that same
profundity to the reader. It is this relationship between complex structure and meaning
that I wish to create in my own works. Thus, "Pesto and Zeke" becomes not simply a
poem about two hamsters, but an insight into addiction; "Forget Me Not" becomes not
only a poem aboutflowers,but a depiction of death's inevitability; and "Spiders Make Us
Dance" becomes not simply a poem about fear of spiders, but a portrayal of how an
object of fear can obstruct the creative process.
As each poem is designed with a complex structure to convey as much meaning
as possible, so the poems are arranged to enhance associative meanings between poems
and to weave an additional story through the entire collection. Thus, Learning to Speak
is the story of a man who learns as a child to remain silent, yet is awed by the power of
those who boldly state what they think. As the story progresses, he encounters various
experiences that challenge his perception of himself and his ownrightto speak on behalf
of himself and others. This narrative is less overt than the stories told in each of the
poems, yet it is what holds the poems together, builds them into a unified whole.
Each of this book'sfiveparts contains poems describing a different stage in the
speaker's growth as a writer and as a person. Thefirstthree parts are arranged in a
roughly chronological fashion, beginning with early childhood in Part One, "Losing His
Voice," continuing through adolescence and young adulthood in Part Two, "A Few
Words From Babylon," and arriving at a series of poems about separation and loss in Part
Three, "Learning to Speak," which culminates in "After the Exams," a poem about
completion and beginning anew. Alongside this chronological progression runs a current
that deals specifically with the ability to speak ("Tracheotomy: Losing His Voice," "Field
Mouse," and "Advanced Individual Training"), or the speaker's realization that
sometimes emotions cannot be easily expressed in words ("Turkey Vultures," "Bird
Eating Spider: First Love," and "What You Don't Know About My Mood This
Morning"). I wanted to arrange the poems in a way that expresses the ebb andflowof
any given person's ability or desire to speak; thus, "Tracheotomy: Losing His Voice," a
poem about being physically unable to make speech, is followed by "Digging Up the
Backyard," a poem in which the speaker's voice is powerful enough to command "[a]n
army of nextdoor kids." Likewise, the speaker's certainty that words could have
prevented tragedy in "Into the Hollow" is followed by the speaker's conviction that
words can cause tragedy in "Curses." I include these last two poems in Part One to
illustrate how life experiences can cause one to "lose one's voice" by calling into
question the validity of exercising one'srightto speak.
Part Four, "Speaking for the Dead," contains poems aboutfiiendsand family who
have passed away. The intent here is to show the speaker/poet embracing his role as a
speaker not just for himself, but for others as well. He has graduatedfrommere selfexploration to afixUerinteraction with the world outside himself, as is evidenced, for
example, in "Stepfather and Son," where the speaker attempts to understand the feelings
his stepfather has after reading a shocking account of abusive behavior attributed to him,
and, later, while undergouig testing to determine the extent cancer has invaded his body.
I try in this poem to convey emotions similar to those expressed in Robert Hayden's
"Those Winter Sundays"—the realization later in life that when a father took pains to
ensure the well-being of those around him, those pains went unnoticed or, at the least,
underappreciated. It is a theme that is best understood when one has some distance from
one's childhood and so is better able to reflect on the events of that tune objectively. In
this poem and others in Part Four, then, the speaker's voice is one that is more developed
through experience, and in that sense it can be understood to follow thefirstthree parts
chronologically.
"Laughing Out Loud," thefinalpart, is intended to give the reader a sense of
release and closure. I include "Sonnet Ending with a Moment of Silence" as both comic
relieffromthe rather heavy content of Part Four and as an illustration that the speaker has
brokenfromthe past and can now express himself truthfully both inside and outside his
heavily personalized experiences. "Spiders Make Us Dance" shiftsfromthis focus to
show how what one has learned in the past can be appropriated for future use, and
"Laughing on the Outside" shifts again to show that the speaker can reflect on the past,
acknowledge the pain experienced there, and emergefromhis reflection with a sense of
freedom to live in the present and hope for the fliture.
10
This arrangement of the poems is intended to unify the purpose of the book,
which is to show the growth of the speaker's voice through a series of life experiences,
ultunately leading to a profound sense of release. At the beginning of the collection, the
speaker's voice is more timid, with only a few out-bursting exceptions. I want these
poems to suggest a careful deliberation of the speaker's early experiences that leads to an
epiphany, some sense that the speaker has learnedfromeach experience and can now
progress to an understanding of the next. By the end of the collection, the speaker's
voice has become more focused and positive. He now understands that the determination
as to whether an experience is constructive or depressing is largely a matter of attitude.
He can "laugh out loud" in the face of his mistakes. He is like the Zen master who, after
nine years of silence, has awakened to the sound of his own voice and found it familiar.
11
CHAPTER II
LEARNING TO SPEAK: A COLLECTION OF POEMS
12
Part 1: Losing His Voice
13
'Woe to me!" I cried. "I am mined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and my eyes have
seen the Kiig, the Lord Aknighty."
Isaiah 6:5
14
Tracheotomy: Losing His Voice
His eyelids clenched tight, blood
beating at his ears and cheeks,
air escapes through his throat hole.
Two years old, he lies
on his back, diaper full, legs and arms
strapped at his sides to keep him
from pulling out wires
suctioned to his chest,
marking a monotone beat;
from pulling out tubes
in his throat and arms giving
oxygen and nutrition. He screams
like Aeneas's Hades warriors,
shaping his mouth into cries
that are seen, but not heard.
15
Digging Up the Backyard
Shoveling was natural at seven
when Mom worked days—^natural
for all neighborhood kids.
When I dug, my stepbrothers
dug, too, believing sand
beneath topsoil was China,
as my drunken stepfether said.
An army of nextdoor kids
enlisted under my command:
Dig, soldiers! Hup! Hup! Hup!
Put your shoulders into it!
It's a long way to Peking!
We took out the west perimeter
and made our way eastward.
By midday we'd transgressed
the entire backyard, made rain
from a garden hose. We slugged
through mud aU afternoon,
(stanza break)
16
drenched in our victory over Earth
and Sky, fired plastic pistols,
rolled from scar to scar, muddied
Garanimals our mothers dressed us in.
Our teeth shone like medals
against dirty faces. When Mom
came home, the neighbors shimmied
over the fence and—^her love
notwithstanding—she shamed
my stepbrothers and me, hosed us
down, said we came from opposite
Heaven, like my stepfather's wet bar.
Our giggles angered her more because
—^we didn't reason it at the time—
my stepdad packed a wallop; Mom
was his target. Now I know,
but can't retract those moments,
wouldn't if I could—^the digging.
(stanza break)
17
mud and laughter. How can I
cast off these memories
my mother paid for in blood?
18
Field Mouse
My Dad will blow your head off
if he knows you're from California.
Such was Keary O'Malley's greeting
for me. In fourth grade, I was new
to Montana, had never seen snow,
still wet my pants, too afraid to ask
to get up and pee. I remember
cookies Keary brought to school,
his offer of one, his mock horror
as I took a bite, his word: Dextrose!
You ate a cookie with dextrose!
I panicked, asked the teacher
for an antidote; he pointed
to the dictionary. I needed fiiends
too much for angry words. At recess
a mouse ran in the schoolyard; I hoped
to touch its soft gray fur, chased it,
thought I could make a tiny home
in the ground, a stone border
and grass for bedding. Keary
(no stanza break)
19
jumped in front of me
and stomped the mouse dead;
its guts pushed out its broken sides.
He said he'd saved me, that rabies
shots were stomach needles.
The whistle blew; we stood in lines
outside the classroom door. I raised
my hand, a watery brim in my eyes,
and asked to use the restroom.
20
Turkey Vultures
Dad said he could drive with his eyes closed
on the hairpins of Highway 9; to prove it
he closed them Really, he peeked through
lowered lashes, but we were kids and believed
him blind. That year Christmas came in June.
Dad gave nature books: for me, turkey vultures
snapping meat; for Shannon, hyenas cracking
bones; for Soozi, carrion beetles tunneling
leftovers. We learned Nature feeds on routines
for disposing of itself the way separation eats
kids, grinds them to numb nubs, burrows into
their memories, drives them silent, alone.
In two months. Dad drove us back to our mother
in Montana. Near Battle Mountain, he pointed
to giant birds with crimson heads and black wings
—feathersfingeredwide. I leaned back, pressed
(stanza break)
21
my head against the windshield, watched
turkey vultures balancing wind above the highway
—^then, below, a dog with one leg flinching.
I could not tell if that red was a collar or blood,
but remember the sound Dad's Honda made
rolling over its head. My Father was silent
all the way to Wells. I swear, the whole time
his eyes were closed.
22
Into the Hollow: Malheur National Forest, Oregon
When the tour guide told us
this ground our steps made hollow
was the largest Uving organism
on the planet, a fijngus
from which grew everything
we saw—save the gift shop and snack bar
(and even these made with pine cut
from this unsound ground)—^I wanted
to ask how long we'd known the forest
before we knew what lived beneath.
My student killed himself
I don't know how—^read it in the paper.
I'd talked with him three weeks
before, a genial fellow, worried
he'd missed too many classes. I said
try to make the rest, my best attempt
(no stanza break)
to help him learn. He half-
23
smiled before he left the room; in hindsight, a thousand pounds on his shoulder.
The next class he sat three rows back
for the last time. If I'd known,
I'd have told him sometimes
we can't see the fimgus for the trees,
but a wilderness grows huge
and green above the earth, so dense
we can only begin to ejq)lore.
When we look to the ground
and stamp our feet against the hollow,
we should not wish the earth
to swallow us whole; should rather trust
what holds the trees to bear us, too.
24
Curses
Unless you renounce your sin, you cannot return to Sunday school
Youth Pastor, Assembly of God Church
We call our vulgar words curses
as if shit might cause constipation,
its opposite, or an unfortunate
step in the park; as though
fuck you might cause impotence
or premature
ejaculation. At seventeen
I bought some Schilling spice
at the comer supermarket,
tossed a handfiil on my youth
pastor's porch. I'd borrowed a book
of potions—^recipes for revenge:
(stanza break)
25
Sprinkle mustard seed in paths
of those who cause you grief;
you '11 watch them writhe like worms
ifyou are strong in your belief.
Next week, a car hit my dog; my girlfiiend
pregnant (myself a virgin);
and I swear a spirit visited my bed
to spoil my sleep. And, if this curse
sprang back at the curser, what
of the words that slip our lips
each time the mind's cauldron
bubbles over? What incantation
can renounce those wicked spells?
What dark and fantastic hell
have we spoken for ourselves?
26
Part 2: A Few Words For Babylon
27
'By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept
when we remembered Zion."
Psalm 137:1
28
Bird-Eating Spider: First Love
A man in Perthshire, Scotland
keeps the largest one alive
in a cricket-fiilled greenhouse
with thousands of its leggy mates.
But the biggest ever dropped in
on my fourth grade class: eleven inches
toe-to-toe, bigger than a dinner plate,
and soaking in formaldehyde.
The man who brought it said
he bartered for it in Bolivia
with a man who planned
to singe the hairs off and eat it—
a creamy center I'd rather forget.
I don't know what he exchanged,
but he left it for Mr. McDowell,
who bribed us with a chance to rest
(stanza break)
29
the largest spider in the world
on our desk's edge. Or not—
depending, when it passed us,
on how fer back we would lean.
Shelley tipped back; her cinnamon
hair lay before me. I prayed
for Mr. McDowell to leave
that spider on her desk forever.
30
Spring Cleaning
I toss a soaked Kleenex in the trash and reach
for another to catch a sneeze. Sudafed stifles
a percentage of congestion, but my sinuses weigh
a poimd apiece two hours into four-hour meds.
I promised Mom I'd write Tom's poem by Sunday,
a Father's Day homage for trying more than most,
butfivedays ago I swept the porch—a dust bowl
outside my sliding glass door—^pulled tendrils
of brown Bermuda grass grown since last Spring,
picked up trash that blew over the fence or dropped
from the balcony above, threw everything in a cinch
sack and lobbed it in the dumpster—everything
but thick dust that glazed my nose and throat.
When I was sixteen, Tom said to sweep the porch
before I could hang out with friends. I cursed
under my breath, so I thought, but Tom
(stanza break)
31
lumbered into view, his menacingfingerextended,
and grounded mefromTV for two weeks. I watched
the TV's reflection in the living room window
until Mom caught my angle and made me move.
They had me clean the oven andfridge,dust
and vacuum, sweep the porch. It is now Saturday.
I have orange juice and chicken noodle soup,
staples of the sick and dying, and I lie
on the couch, blanket drawn up to my throat,
an empty tissue box and full garbage beside me.
Tablet against my knees, I arrange my lines,
sneeze, replace phrases with phrases, blow.
My head feels stuffed with feathers,
and words sweep in and out of focus.
32
Jokers Wild
I bought my tattoo at eighteen—a lion
with a Messiah face and green eyes
like Dad's—eyes I'd always wanted.
Brown got a black panther with blood
on its claws, and Blevins must
have had something, now long faded
from my mind. We drank afterward,
not before—^Long Island Iced Teas
at a strip club. The Joker's Wild—
a ritual of manhood like the ink
in our arms. I had never seen
a woman nude, much less dancing,
and my crotch exposed me. It took
three drinks before I'd look up
at her live breasts, legs wrapped
around a pole—nothing but a smile,
said a sHck emcee before each dance.
1 sat behind a table at parade rest,
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33
thought of polishing boots, ironing
uniforms, marching in parkas
through October rain, calisthenics,
encoding, decoding—anything
to keepfromarousing fiiU attention.
Blevins and Brown found seats
by the stage, and we all fell in love
with Sandy—the only dancer
not skinny or tattooed—and decided
we'd use her name as code, certain
future wives would roll their eyes
or leave us if they knew. We shared
one space for twelve weeks, drank
new drinks, ate shit-on-a-shingle
our mothers would've throwm out.
Our mothers would have thrown us out,
had they known about our weekends;
but I missed Mom, called to warn her
about my inked arm She was glad
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34
for a lion—not a skull or nude dancer—
hoped I'd make it home for Christmas,
asked what I'd learned. I told her teletype—
the rest is confidential and cried as I hung up.
By Christmas, we graduated radio school,
picked up our bonuses (minus taxes)
and bought airline tickets home. Once wamed
an officer would know you by your hair,
I wore dress greens on the plane.
Brown and Blevins watched me board.
I had not seen my family in sk months—
was anxious to spend travelers' cheques
—^myfirstemployment, what Dad called
This Man's Fitness Club. As the plane taxied,
I knew in two weeks I'd soldier in Germany,
Brown and Blevins stateside. The major
beside me asked about home. I said home
was green like Montana, and I held back
tears, mbbed my arm's painted scar.
35
Pesto and Zeke
Pesto the Hamster bit a hole in his belly
so deep you could see intestines. The vet
cleaned the wound, sewed him shut, said
Pesto gnawed a tumor, wamed he might
chew the stitches. One month later,
he ate another hole, like an addict
returning to his booze, and I knew
he'd die but couldn't buy another visit.
Zeke is a mild-mannered albino
bought the same day, same pet store
as Pesto, who is handsome, fency
tan patches and a pinstripe down his back
—^who'd have thought Pesto the weaker?
They buddied in their youth, ran
side by side in their wheel—^sometimes
in opposite directions. After the surgery,
I disjoined the cages, one in each,
to rest the patient. Later, their reunion
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36
haywired when Pesto caught four inches
of air, spread-eagled, and body-slammed Zeke,
who squeaked Our Fathers
until my gloved hand reached down
to deliver him. Pesto now dangerous,
I closed the tube. They became neighbors,
separated by plastic and bars. At night,
Zeke would unruffie, walk across his cage
to the plastic wall facing Pesto, climb
halfway to his tower and chew
the transparent tube, as though
trying to reach him. Ignoring Zeke's
attempted interventions, Pesto gnawed,
so the stomach hole returned, full of pus
and swollen, bleeding. Pesto, skeletal,
right eye swelled shut, retumed to the vet
who said he'd die in pain three months
from now, at best. I drove home, Pesto's
empty box beside me, believed no one
could have kept his bellyfromhis teeth.
37
Advanced Individual Training
A Greyhound drove us across state lines—
Fort Jackson, South Carolina to Fort Gordon, Georgia.
I thought Basic would end tough soldiering,
but Alpha-Gators roomed at Brems Barracks,
where the hardest asses Army could muster
taught the art of detail: how Brasso shined
copper pipes, how toilet paper cornered sharp
as left and rightflanks,how two thick
waxed black lines down each aisle
revealed boot dust only acrylic
could treat—^how inept we were
with a mop and bucket, soap and rag.
Brown slept in the bunk above me,
Blevins the next bunk over. Weekends,
our sheets and wool blankets pulled tight
as our quarters. We were eighteen, but girls
sold drinks and stripped like we were old
enough to know. Once, I drank with soldiers
38
(stanza break)
I'd never seen. I don't remember where
the other two Bs went, but the motel TV played
skinflicks,and someone said
a girl next door gave it away to anyone.
I should not now admit
what I said to make her scream asshole,
which I deserved, and still deserve,
and will deserve in death: baited
with beer and pom, I asked
if she would still give it away to anyone
who wanted it. In shame, I took
a three-dollar taxi back to Brems,
passed out on my bunk. Someone turned
my head toward the edge of the bed.
I puked on my boots and the thick
waxed black line. Morning, I woke,
grabbed a mop and bucket, a wet rag
for the Army's wool blanket, black Kiwi
(stanza break)
39
for my boots. When I finished,
I drained the waste of last night
down copper pipes so polished they reflected
my fece. People say they see my mother
when they see me. Even with Brasso,
I could notfindher face in mine.
40
Sea Otters
When you hear a male
sometimes takes the head
off a female during sex,
do you ask if the female
was promiscuous or seductive,
or if she put up a stmggle,
or if she screamed
or said nol
41
Part 3: Learning To Speak
42
'The attraction of knowledge would be small if one did not
have to overcome so much shame on the way."
Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil
43
Fog
In the evening, across the bay,
I search for the pyramid, the wharf
the Golden Gate, but everything is fog
folding the horizon, small red lights
warning through. Today on Abbott Road,
The Wedding March was played. The bride
inflowers—^theway Marie wore hers
the day we wed—^the groom, a pale green,
pressed his lips hard on hers, lasting moments
longer than anyone expected. Cake was cut,
and smiles passed around. The best man toastedHere 's to newlyweds! The guests replied
Here, here! and drank champagne. At dusk,
the wedded crept across the bay; their car's
red lights withdrew into the fog.
44
Extrafoxy
foxy adj. 1. Like or pertaining to the fox; foxlike in disposition or looks; wily.
foxy adj. 2. (Slang) Elegant and seductive; "a foxy lady."
Don't I look extrafoxy today?
Kelly said, but I played mute, shook
my head, read a book by Doime.
Three years before, I learned
it isn 'tfoxy to flirt with women
not one's wife,fromLacy, who wasn't.
Now, divorced and remarried, I know
flirtation wears no meaning
beyond preening. Lacy was foxy,
winked during meetings, tickled
my tummy when I held a door—
frisky, married, a foolish lot of fun.
One day I caught the question mark
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45
between her eyebrows, her stare
at the floor, and asked what was wrong.
My husbandjoined ROTC. He plans
to pilot jets. He'd said nothing
at their wedding—made her believe
she would teach, not host tea parties
at the officers' club. I asked about her goals,
how she'd live as an officer's wife,
said I thought her not the type; far better
the professor, the scholar, and she agreed,
said she didn't know. Ifibbedmy marriage
was ending—^thought she meant the same.
With me, her plans were safe: we'd teach
and ride a cozy road together, forget
our troubles in each other. Her slap
was strong. When I came to,
she wasn't so foxy; I howled
then whimpered and scamped away.
46
What You Don't Know About My Mood This Morning
Awake in my dream, I kept
careful eye as we strolled
a beach, passing a trio
of men bulging
in Speedos. I was certain
you were gazing
when we split
in two around them.
When we should have come
together behind them,
another man in nothing at all
edged past my periphery,
took my place beside you.
I could not see his fece,
only the fact of his body
next to yours. And why a red
velvet couch was on the beach,
I cannot say, but there it was,
and there you stretched alongside him,
(no stanza break)
a hand on his thigh, eyeing
47
the eggplant between his legs.
He was indifferent, and I beat
myfistin the sand, shifted
my red gape between his cock
and your eyes that never stopped staring.
I am awake now. It is 6:25
and my body dry as the beach
before a tidal wave. The alarm
will buzz infiveminutes,
and I'll have to explain,
or pretend it never happened;
and even then you may wonder
why I curl beneath the covers,
hands on my knees, why I won't
lift the sheets and meet your eyes,
why, when you stare, I'll cringe.
48
Pigeon
My marriage dying, I did not expect
another bird that day to lay
its shoulders between my hands
and stop breathing. To save a song
sparrow was noble—a cedar waxwing,
perhaps inspired—^but who would stoop
for a gray-feathered pigeon thrashing
its one good wing against pavement?
I held it in a towel, convinced my wife
to drive us to a vet. It died en route,
naturally. We stopped at the curb
outside the clinic, placed the body
in a circle of low-growing juniper.
My wife said she was sorry—
she knew it was difficult to leave
the bird—^but perhaps my hands
were comfort as it died. I remember
holding it, feeling it quiver as pulse
left the body and flew
beyond my grasp. It seems strange
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49
that I would care. Today, I read
that the city poisons pigeons,
and I wonder, had I reached
the vet in time, how hard
she might have laughed at me.
50
Boomerang
for Gale
Today, I threw the boomerang Gale left
before shipping off to teach in China
—a memento of four years as friends.
I saw it hanging on his wall months before;
He'd found it in a parking lot, resting
like a wood-colored comma
of compressed cardboard, snakes
on each end spelling Australia.
I watched him leave, his yellow CRX
packed with thirty-odd books and a suitcase,
and a letter I wrote him the night before,
saying I'd never forget, that I knew
we'd meet again. I asked him to forgive me
if I slipped a tear before he turned
to leave; thanked him for our talks
of poetry, baseball, politics, childhood,
religion, quantum physics, women; thanked
him for listening through my divorce,
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51
throughriddingschool of a rapist,
through losing afriendand a student
to suicide. We'd argued at times
about Jesus and Mohammed—^how
I couldn't make them agree, and Gale
would say that's not the point.
He'd bring music for my stereo,
and we'd talk all night. Gale once said.
Just when you think I'm losing my shit,
I bring it all back together. Today,
I threw his boomerang, and it came back to me.
52
Blazes
The reporter says wildfires
surround Hamilton
and points to smoke;
fifteen hundred miles away,
I sit on my couch
and watch the eastem range,
white and billowing,
where Mom and Tom live
betweenfireand fire—
the Sapphire Range
ablaze, the Bitterroots
ablaze. I married
in that valley;
we honeymooned
in those woods.
(stanza break)
53
and years ago I buried
a fiiend in the hill
across the river.
The reporter says
the town is safe for now,
but Mom wears a mask,
keeps windows and doors
closed mornings
when the air mopes about
like fog. Tom says fire
scurries up trees, blows
them inside out, scatters
coals in dry grass, blazes
up another, and nobody knows
how long it will live,
(stanza break)
54
how many trees will explode.
I pray it will die
before it reaches home,
that my memories
won't cremate
before me.
55
After the Exams
1 wrote misery in a circle of books.
Complained of long nights and short candles.
The absence of time, daily muddle of words.
How work made writing too fallow to handle;
Yet now, those hours of testing completed,
I process my words at a quickening pace
Fearing my memory might have deleted
My feel for formality, figure and face.
Like hundreds of tonguesfiringunder my skin.
Words leap to myfingers;my memory's held.
So after the graduate examination,
1 place all one hundred two books on my shelf
Here in my study, I type ruminations.
Discovering new ways of exposing myself
56
Part 4: Speaking For The Dead
57
"A fiiend, very ill from a degenerative nerve disease that seemed about to cause
her death, visited with a Korean Zen master who had just come to this country.
After she told him of her predicament, he smiled and waved his hand, saying,
'Don't worry. You won't die.' Because he knew that who she was was not
her body or her mind, not something impermanent. That who she was
never dies. Because awareness simply is."
Stephen Levine, Who Dies?
58
Canyon Creek Falls
for Shannon.
Mike and I set out among the boulders,
birch, and Ponderosa pine for the falls
fed,fiirtherup the trail, by Lake Canyon,
feeding, below the falls. Canyon Creek.
Mike stops at a break in the trees, eyes,
against a cliff, the object of our hike.
The sinking sun delays our summer hike,
so Mike and I wind back among the boulders
that shadow the trail, obscuring our eyes.
My ankle twists sk times, and once Mike falls
—barely avoids a drenching in the creek.
He stares up the trail at the canyon.
We resolve to return to Canyon
Creek Falls the next morning, resolve to hike
to paradise four miles away, the creek
that chums a granite wall lined with boulders.
59
(no stanza break)
My sister and her boyfriend hike the falls
with us, and Mike desires my sister's eyes
to stray from her boyfriend to Mike's blue eyes
that gaze back, then scan the wooded canyon.
To impress my sister, Mike doesn't hike,
but rumbles up the trail to meet the falls,
removes Ms shirt, and clambers between boulders,
stacked one upon the other so they creak
when he steps off. Up ahead, the creek
cuts stone, its water chilled by glacial ice.
He leaps among colossal leaning boulders,
stands at the top, and surveys the canyon
in sunlight, as though he is god of the fall;
watches the rest of usfinishour hike.
Above the falls, the four of us look down,
follow white water swathed in shrouds of green.
Mike gazes at my sister, seventeen,
and anguish cuts fiirrows in his brow.
If we had left the boyfriend back in town,
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60
Mike may have reconsidered his next step,
but desire and pride make him forget
his mortal coil. He sinks his body down
the middle of Canyon Creek Falls, creeps
down one moss slick boulder to ten feet below,
where another boulder bulges upward.
With strong, dexterous hands and sneakered feet,
Mike sUdes to the rock, glares across the flow
—a look my sister's boyfriend can't ignore.
Between the boulder he safely rests upon
and the boulder he launched himself off
remains water-smoothed granite and moss
lodged with gravel that grates his knees—skin sawn,
he bleeds as he ascends. Halfway up the face,
he hits a mossy crevice in the rock
and, to everyone's horrified shock,
plungesfivehundred feet down the cascade.
The falls force Mike against a wall of rock,
a jutting where he limply remains
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61
until my sister's boyfriend drags him free.
Across the canyon, hikers stop to gawk
at his body. My sister and I strain
to keep himfromslipping fiirther. Three
of us remain; the boyfriend runs for help.
Mike's body broken, he breathes; his life relies
on the boyfiiend's pace down the path that guides
toward town. My sister's hand lands a slap
across Mike's cheek, forcing himfroma dream.
He stares into my sister'sfiightenedface
and tells her he will live. My sister braces
him with her legs until a crisis team
can come for him and stop death's assault.
She grips him under crackedribs,soothing
him with stay-awake words. Inside him, blood
seepsfromveins, contradicting his resolve
to live. My sister embraces him, smoothing
his hair, wiping off the moss and mud.
(stanza break)
62
Sk hours pass, and several times we hike
Mike up to keep himfromslipping. The creek
seeps under his legs, drags him down the fells
ten more feet. My sister holds him there, her eyes
drenched, and shrieks for Mike's life. Down the canyon,
we hear a chopper. Skids rest on boulders;
medics crouch and hike to Mike. Their eyes
betray their alarm. The falls and canyon
cannot quell the creak of yielding boulders.
63
Forget-Me-Not
Behind raspberry bushes in white bloom
grow tangles of blueflowers,one
bent—^its stem broken one inch
from its base. Its middle is yellowwhite, like the others, and if I try
to splint thatflower,I will cmsh
what is left of its stem. If I leave
it be, it will die anyway. Only
aflower,its size attracts me—
much smaller than raspberry blossoms.
The petals will crisp and brown.
A strong wind will blow them away.
64
Stepfather and Son
I gave Tom words written for shock
when I handed him that book; he read
abuse and fear and anger—all of which
were there, though never printed. Later,
he'd say it left him hollow, like a tree
carved by carpenter ants. He'd stop
short of betrayed, but 1 knew
and wrote repentance, forgiveness.
Seventeen years: how long ago
Mike Frost fellfivehundred feet,
broke his body and drowned; how old
he was when it happened. I left
memorial services, afi^d to look
at the body, the casket—afraid to cry
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65
where anyone could see. Next day,
Tom took me to thefimeralhome alone.
I said Mike looked peaceful, believed
he was with God while I remained to feel
the lack of him. Tom understood,
knew why tears welled but never fell,
asked if he should leave. I wanted him
to stay—stay, and never let me go.
Tom wonders now in sterile light
as machines pass over bones,
scan for tumors like one
found days before, what will be
remembered when I'm gone?
He has not told me this, but I hear it
over the phone with his word surgery.
I need to tell him he'll survive,
that the ants have died,
the tree has grown new leaves.
66
Song Sparrow
Last night Dad called, a voice strained
with word from Phoenk of Granddad's death.
Grandad and I were never close—^traveled once
to visit me, met me four times I remember—but I learned
through Dad his love of lapidary, gunsmithing,
sprout farming, clock repair, tool invention, painting . . . .
I asked Dad about the services, said
I did not think I'd make it, but sure would like to go.
When I hung up, I checked the locks and windows,
looked out back at our blue heeler. Tucker,
whose jaws smacked over something he'd found,
or caught—a song sparrow. I went to the shed
for a shovel, but when I retumed the bird
was across the yard. Tucker sat above it watching,
head cocked. I tucked the shovel beside the bird,
but the dog jawed it, dropped it some ten feet away.
(stanza break)
67
I looked more closely. The bird breathed.
I grabbed a rag of red robe we let Tucker shred.
He had no notion why I yelled at him.
With the rag I scooped the bird into my hand
and carried it to my wife. Her covers moved
like the sparrow's troubled rhythms. 1 knew
she was sleeping, yet the bird was dying,
so I bothered her for the number of a sanctuary.
As she searched, the sparrowfluttered,gasped,
died. Its legs were spread as if caught mid-stride,
its eyes half open, like an old man sleeping,
head hung over the back of his chair.
I placed it in a clump of sycamore leaves
bunched under dormant roses, thinking
maybe some stray cat wouldfindit
nourishing. The next day I left the house
for the morning paper and found bits
of sparrow a cat left behind— a spray of feathers,
68
(no stanza break)
in the center the heart, like a bead in a dream catcher;
as if the cat wished to say, I'm sorry. I was hungry.
I left the part that mattered.
69
Insomnia
I know I'm not the only one who lies
awake at night searching the ceiling,
who leaves the room to scribble words
no one might ever understand—^not obliged
to stay awake, but certain sleep will wipe
my mind of Granddad, thwart his escape
to the page. I have come
to Phoenk to grieve with my father,
but never thought I might be asked
to tell some tale of Granddad's spark.
Each time 1 met Granddad, we were strangers,
yet I knew four stories: the time he caught
a king snake that oozedfromhis porch
in a rare Arizona monsoon, his third wife
screaming it was Satan; the time Dad,
sick of Granddad's soy, drove an hour
for burgers, made us four kids promise
not to tell; the time his fourth wife falsely
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70
claimed myfirstinsulted her heritage,
and neither me nor Granddad could back down;
and the time I choose to remember him by:
Dad drove all night in a borrowed Volvo
toward Punkin' Center, Arizona,fromSan Jose.
In the Mojave's middle. Dad, my three sisters,
and I had grapes and potato chips, a couple
gallons of water, and heat well over
one hundred. Two hoursfromGranddad's,
the radiator steamed—^Dad, too, at the car,
the cop who stopped us for out-of-state plates,
the window that shattered when Dad
slammed the door. Dad would power
to the top of a hill, let it slide in neutral
down the other side, kick into drive
to climb the next. We were seventeen miles
from Sunflower, an all-in-one gas
station, bar and grocery. After two hours.
Dad was buying a round of root beer
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71
and phoning ahead. Granddad beamed
as his tmck pulled in—as far as I know,
the first of his smiles I'd ever seen.
The night before the fimeral,
I lie awake rewriting his smile.
The ceiling is empty, my page full.
72
Within Birdshot
Grampa wants to talk to anyone
with an ear, to anyone
with a hand for a grizzled dog
with cataracts—a labrador
that once snatched geese
from chill morning air, the huntsman
blasting clean through necks in midhonk; that ran squirrels
up yellow pine marked with orange X's
(good for houses, bad for wood
stoves); that scuttled raccoons
burgling garbage cans behind
the backyard fence, up Douglas fir,
their black eyes glaring green
in porch light. Grampa's skin hangs
like jowls, his eyes are ball bearings,
and he walks with a steel frame, sits
for anyone who'll hear an old lab's
pup years: mossy rocks retrieved
(no stanza break)
73
from Como Lake, a stretch toward sky
for a Frisbee, afriskwith every passing
tail, a raid on the neighbors' Christmas
turkey (like cooked goose,
but less gamy), nights in the woods, clouds
backlit by moonlight, his head resting
on the huntsman's leg. He wants
anyone to hear the whimper at dusk,
view the earth turned sideways, a paw
caught in a badger trap, the other three
shuffling dust, a man with a shotgun
and birdshot, calling his name.
74
Mabel
In the photograph she holds
a baby in a blanket; her smile matches
the white of her hair. Blue eyes bright,
her skin Mary Kay porcelain,
she touches his hand, and he smiles back.
I was too small to remember. Her home
smelled like Shaklee Instant Protein,
peanut butter, bananas, and bread. She kept
a closet of her daughter's and stepkids' toys:
Candy Land, Hi-Ho-Cherry-0, Chutes
& Ladders, dolls, and dominoes.
Near her front porch grew clover that left
handprints when pressed, so I'd sit
on the steps and study myfingers'contours.
She never complained. When I was seven,
she led me to the toy aisle at Longs Dmgs,
(stanza break)
75
let me pick a police badge, and later
my outstretched shield stopped traffic,
then I'd wave it through. Grandma
cautioned, Danny, stay on the lawn.
After herfimeral.Dad and my uncles
lounged in the living room, storytelling
about sewing projects—^most famous, a blanket
with a bowtied bunny logo, one ear straight,
the other leaning. My uncle said Grandma
thought it cute and never suspected.
They laughed. Years later, when her house
grew small, I'd learn she was Granddad's
second wife, wed to care for his first wife's
children. She was blessed, she would say,
that he let her have one of her own.
Granddad kept the cupboards full,
but her closetfilledwith clothes
she'd made herself; and children's games
(no stanza break)
76
were bought with grocery money. Divorce
came sudden when the children grew.
But in the photograph she holds her grandson;
her skin is smooth as his, her blue eyes bright.
He looks up at her face, silent and calm,
and holds herfingerin his tiny hand.
77
Part 5: Laughing Out Loud
78
'So does he live, seeking,finding,joying and suffering.
The door which accident had opened is open still,
but the cage remains forever empty!"
Kate Chopin, "Emancipation: A Life Fable"
79
Sonnet Ending With A Moment of Silence
If one gripped Ken and tumed his head halfway,
replaced his right arm with his left, and left
with right, and did the same thing with his legs,
then one could make the case he's still the same.
That is. Ken's torso doesn't fare too bad:
His shoulder blades are not unlike his pecs,
his neck's the same from front or back, and, heck,
one couldn't see the difference, duly clad,
between this Ken and his straightforward self
But what is most grotesque for any Ken
is that he lacks the plumbing of real men.
For in that place where man most loves himself,
where gonads should be swinging in the air,
Mattel made Ken with nothing hanging there!
80
Growing Popcom
I learned, when I was seven, that a popcom
kemel would grow, so I planted one
in the backyard where we'd once parked
our swimming pool. Each day, I'd carry
a bucket of water out to that circle's
grassless edge, my sister jeering. Pop-corn
doesn 't gro-ow! Pop-corn doesn 't gro-ow!
A tiny spear of green poked from the sand.
Mom asked to see. I towed her behind me
and pointed at the little life I'd made.
The leaf became a stalk, near eighteen
inches tall, and my sister—^the one who,
when I was two, bobby-pirmed an outlet
and swayed Mom that current slipped
through me to frazzle her; the one
(stanza break)
81
who laughed when I hungfroma bar
by my knees and fell on my head; the one
who said my plant would never grow—^tore it
from the earth, roots and all. We're in
our thirties now, and my sister runs
a day-care, sometimes wrangling ten kids
at a time—chasing, wiping, changing—
plus home school for her own. She's jealous
of my time—^wants to go to school, like me.
I hope for more:
to take my Mother's hand and lead her
by my resting wife's side, to blanket
our child and offer her to Mother's
waiting arms, to see her hold
the little life my wife and I had made.
82
Spiders Make Us Dance
A fet elegant one crawled up the comer
of the study last night, four feet
from my desk, where I sat composing.
When I say fat, I mean one could see
detail at that distance—Chairs on eight
patellae, curvature of its thorax,
little legs infrontthat look like fangs.
I remember being—^pick an age—
and Mom would be folding laundry when
a spider, maybe half an inch, would crawl
from the crotch of my stepdad's boxers
or rappelfromthe ceiling and drop
on a warm pile of whites. Clothes
became projectiles, and Mom's screams
were so loud the neighbors offered
to help her land that man-of-hers
in jail. Once Shannon, my sister, and I
studied English at the table when
(no stanza break)
83
she backed away, eyes wide, pointed
at tiny claw legs crawling up my sleeve.
I slapped hands all over my body, stepped
hotfeet, tumed circles, screamed off! off!
Afterward, I spotted it stepping across
American Poetry, so I slammed
the book, later swabbed its twitching legs
with a paper towel. It left an absurd stain
among Dickinson's A Spider sewed at Night
and Ferlinghetti's charleychaplin man.
So, when I say a fat, elegant arachnid
crawled up the comer of my study, I mean
the publisher retumed my manuscript,
a deadline approached like a roller coaster
descending, tracks busted out below. I mean
the muse was flattened in a terrible accident.
So I stabbed the spider with my pen.
84
Assembly
Norberry thought we writhed on the floor,
rolled in the aisles, bounced pew to pew,
yelled, Praise-the-Lu-Jah! Halle-Lord!
So, one Sunday we dressed him darkly
and drove ten blocks to the Assembly
of God. We sang and re-sang starkly,
then the Reverend preached on backward masking
that devil-lovers record on Rock-n-Roll,
which surely leads to sex and (gasp) dancing!—
how Satan invades our home through speakers
in TVs and stereos. He spoke on sin
and the dangers therein, how one sex is weaker,
therefore a ten^tation, how strong drink and pot
invite demon possession. At the show
of hands and tongues-speaking, Norberry, hot
(stanza break)
85
under his scratchy collar, having conspired
to bed half the choir, well-versed in weed
and Alice Cooper, raised his voice and inquired.
What are they, high?
86
Laughing on the Outside
Once again awake at 3 a.m, I open the blinds
and watch rainfilterto the ground; drops
on my windowfindeach other, trickle down the pane
two by two, lose themselves in puddles at the sill.
As a boy, I would stand to the sides of mirrors,
mesmerized that I could see behind walls
from certain angles. I wanted to step inside, explore
that silver place, populate it with imagination,
like Lewis's world beyond a wardrobe's fiir coats,
or the land of wonder Carroll gave to Alice
in exchange for the woman she'd become. Perfection
has its price, they like to say, and if you're God,
sometimes you have to make rain. When I was two,
I could not breathe; doctorsriggedmy throat
with tubes and tied me down—^here on my neck is the scar.
I grew, joined the Army, soldiered in the Rhineland
(stanza break)
87
where it rains more than any place I'd lived before,
where a young man lost himself in an older woman's arms
and feared for ten years to let her go, but did. Here
in my heart is the scar; she has one too.
The rain has slowed now; puddles spark with light
concentric rings. I sit in the dark, blinds open. If I peer
at just the right angle, I can see around the comer.
The rain has gone, and I am not alone.
88
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