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Hilma af Klint, The Dove, No. 12, 1915 MOMA

They Tell Me It’s Over by Linda Gregg

I say, “I stayed in Motel 6, where you told me to stay.” He says, “I meant The Chicago Inn.” That was this winter’s visit. That was a year.

Sigismundo Linda Gregg

The fete confused me. Guests played the part of gods. There was a woman with white skin who stood with her pale robe open all night throwing roses. A lady found me in the only quiet room and demanded I take her to him. I refused even when she begged, and went down by the water to think of something else. Sun rose that morning on the torches. Cool air over the tepid sea. Sigismundo the Beautiful. Out for himself. Torturer of doves. A killer of cities. Killer of wife before breakfast. Sigismundo, who built a church to a woman not beautiful, with roses cut in the stone. All through my boyhood I was told I’d walk hand in hand with death. I chose the good, and cried when they marred the statues. But there is nothing, nothing to say about my life. Unmerciful Sigismundo did many wrongs and his people loved him and he will live forever. I who go down like Persephone with my accomplishments of silence and weeping unrecorded, even I if I were a girl would answer Yes, I know how to swim. Lie for the chance to drown in that blue water of his. Sigismundo.

Basho wrote that the life of poetry means lighting a fire in summer, swallowing ice cubes in winter.

9 WOOD THRUSH High on Nardil and June light I wake at four, waiting greedily for the first note of the wood thrush. Easeful air presses through the screen with the wild, complex song of the bird, and I am overcome by ordinary contentment. What hurt me so terribly all my life until this moment? How I love the small, swiftly beating heart of the bird singing in the great maples; its bright, unequivocal eye.

from “Having It Out With Melancholy” by Jane Kenyon

White Buttons Mary Ruefle

Having been blown away by a book I am in the gutter at the end of the street in little pieces like the alphabet (mother do not worry letters are not flesh though there’s meaning in them but not when they are mean my letters to you were mean I found them after you died and read them and tore them up and fed them to the wind thank you for intruding I love you now leave) Also at the end of the street there is a magnolia tree the white kind that tatters after it blooms so the tree winds up in the street Our naked shivering bodies must be at some distance missing us come back come back they cry come home put down that book whenever you read you drift away on a raft you like your parrot more than you like me and stuff like that (dear father you always were a bore but I loved you more than interesting things and in your honor I’ve felt the same about myself and everyone I’ve ever met) I like to read in tree houses whenever I can which is seldom and sometimes never The book that blew me away held all the problems of the world and those of being alive under my nose but I felt far away from them at the same time reading is like that (I am sorry I did not go to your funeral but like you said on the phone an insect cannot crawl to China) Here at the end of the street the insects go on living under the dome of the pacific sky If Mary and Joseph had walked the sixty miles to Bethlehem vertically they would have found themselves floating in the outer pitch of space it would have been cold no inns a long night in the dark endless and when they began to cry the whole world would think something had just been born I like to read into things as I am continually borne forward in time by the winds like the snow (dear sister you were perfect in every way like a baby please tell brother the only reason we never spoke was out of our great love for each other which made a big wind that blew us apart) I think I am coming back I feel shoulders where a parrot could land though a tree would be as good a place as any You cannot teach a tree to talk Trees can say it is spring but not though bright sunlight can also be very sad have you noticed?

Prayer

Marie Howe

Someone or something is leaning close to me now

trying to tell me the one true story of my life:

one note,

low as a bass drum, beaten over and over:

It’s beginning summer,

and the man I love has forgotten my smell

the cries I made when he touched me, and my laughter

when he picked me up

and carried me, still laughing, and laid me down,

among the scattered daffodils on the dining room table.

And Jane is dead,

and I want to go where she went,

where my brother went,

and whoever it is that whispered to me

when I was a child in my father’s bed is come back now:

and I can’t stop hearing:

This is the way it is,

the way it always was and will be —

beaten over and over — panicking on street corners,

or crouched in the back of taxicabs,

afraid I’ll cry out in jammed traffic, and no one will know me or

know where to bring me.

There is, I almost remember,

another story:

It runs alongside this one like a brook inside a train.

The sparrows know it; the grass rises with it.

The wind moves through the highest tree branches without

seeming to hurt them.

Tell me.

Who was I when I used to call your name?

womanhouse

Adrienne Rich

terminusantequem

kitduckworth

camille bombois “baigneuses” oil on canvas 1929

Faint Music Robert Hass

Maybe you need to write a poem about grace. When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt, and the heroine has studied her face and its defects remorselessly, and the pain they thought might, as a token of their earnestness, release them from themselves has lost its novelty and not released them, and they have begun to think, kindly and distantly, watching the others go about their days— likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears— that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming, and understood, therefore, why they had been, all their lives, in such a fury to defend it, and that no one— except some almost inconceivable saint in his pool of poverty and silence—can escape this violent, automatic life’s companion ever, maybe then, ordinary light, faint music under things, a hovering like grace appears. As in the story a friend told once about the time he tried to kill himself. His girl had left him. Bees in the heart, then scorpions, maggots, and then ash. He climbed onto the jumping girder of the bridge, the bay side, a blue, lucid afternoon. And in the salt air he thought about the word “seafood,” that there was something faintly ridiculous about it. No one said “landfood.” He thought it was degrading to the rainbow perch he’d reeled in gleaming from the cliffs, the black rockbass, scales like polished carbon, in beds of kelp along the coast—and he realized that the reason for the word was crabs, or mussels, clams. Otherwise the restaurants could just put “fish” up on their signs, and when he woke—he’d slept for hours, curled up on the girder like a child—the sun was going down and he felt a little better, and afraid. He put on the jacket he’d used for a pillow, climbed over the railing carefully, and drove home to an empty house. There was a pair of her lemon yellow panties hanging on a doorknob. He studied them. Much-washed. A faint russet in the crotch that made him sick with rage and grief. He knew more or less where she was. A flat somewhere on Russian Hill. They’d have just finished making love. She’d have tears in her eyes and touch his jawbone gratefully. “God,” she’d say, “you are so good for me.” Winking lights, a foggy view downhill toward the harbor and the bay. “You’re sad,” he’d say. “Yes.” “Thinking about Nick?” “Yes,” she’d say and cry. “I tried so hard,” sobbing now, “I really tried so hard.” And then he’d hold her for a while— Guatemalan weavings from his fieldwork on the wall— and then they’d fuck again, and she would cry some more, and go to sleep. And he, he would play that scene once only, once and a half, and tell himself that he was going to carry it for a very long time and that there was nothing he could do but carry it. He went out onto the porch, and listened to the forest in the summer dark, madrone bark cracking and curling as the cold came up. It’s not the story though, not the friend leaning toward you, saying “And then I realized—,” which is the part of stories one never quite believes. I had the idea that the world’s so full of pain it must sometimes make a kind of singing. And that the sequence helps, as much as order helps— First an ego, and then pain, and then the singing.

Everything Good Between Men and Women CD Wright

has been written in mud and butter and barbecue sauce. The walls and the floors used to be gorgeous. The socks off-white and a near match. The quince with fire blight but we get two pints of jelly in the end. Long walks strengthen the back. You with a fever blister and myself with a sty. Eyes have we and we are forever prey to each other’s teeth. The torrents go over us. Thunder has not harmed anyone we know. The river coursing through us is dirty and deep. The left hand protects the rhythm. Watch your head. No fires should be unattended. Especially when wind. Each receives a free swiss army knife. The first few tongues are clearly preparatory. The impression made by yours I carry to my grave. It is just so sad so creepy so beautiful. Bless it. We have so little time to learn, so much... The river courses dirty and deep. Cover the lettuce. Call it a night. O soul. Flow on. Instead.

Provenance Mary Ruefle

In the fifth grade I made a horse of papier-mache and painted it white and named it Aurora

We were all going to the hospital each one with his little animal to give to the girl who was lying on her deathbed there whose name I can’t recall

A classmate with freckles perhaps or such small feet her footsteps never mattered much

I did not want to give her anything It seemed unfair she got to ride Aurora whom I made with my own two hands and took aside at birth and said go while I had to walk perhaps for a very long time

I thought perhaps the animals would all come back together and on one day but they never did

And so I have had to deal with wild intractable people all my days and have been led astray in a world of shattered moonlight and beasts and trees where no one ever even curtsies anymore or has an understudy

So I have gone up to the little room in my face, I am making something out of a jar of freckles and a jar of glue

I hate childhood I hate adulthood And I love being alive

Swan Hair Jane Miller

Was there a murder nearby, talked about all year,

and less and less by you

as you drove quickly by what others stopped to see?

Were you in love at the time?

Was your mother still alive?

Are you dressed now, therefore in public?

Are you walking home alone?

Is it humid? Does it occur to you

that while grasses blow without anyone

seeing wind, relationships befall you?

Do you want to be aroused by words,

or does that bore you, like porn?

Are you yourself hungry?

Is there a sense that you’re on a floating bed?

Do you think of yourself in an apartment by the sea, when it is winter,

a few neighbors and foghorns, early evening and the mood already gloomy?

Do you remember? Did anyone help you?

Do you compare yourself to a passerby

in a loose white blouse and jeans?

Do others shut down nearer your power?

If I think of you, will I draw another breath?

Was there a melon in high season

or a wall when it snowed?

Didn’t the tray weigh nothing on your body

when your lover woke you with a plate of toasts and ginger,

lingering in the room while you dressed in tights, a slip

and a mustache to be funny?

Did you laugh? Do you remember?

When you made love and smelled of sweat and mint,

did you anticipate your birthday, and the hundreds of people?

Did you wake too early? Did it matter?

Were those slippers, tap shoes, heels, and sneakers

rarely worn because you lay around

in a cloud? Did people like you?

Were you terrible?

Were you available?

Had you money? Were you thrilled?

Did you cleave? How?

Were you valiant? furtive? masculine?

Did you do your dishes? Were you immaculate?

Did you suffer?

Do I know,

if you cried, was it a moment, an hour, or much longer?

Did you never? Do I believe you?

Did you imagine your everyday life

as a frog or victim or swimmer or liar

or a pair of binoculars or a winning ticket?

Is feeling surreal like swan hair?

Was that your city? Were you tired?

Was there shock? Pleasure?

Was there water nearby?

Who cooked all afternoon?

Who bicycled for wine?

Was your intelligence obvious? Were you forgiven?

Did you put a hand in the fire?

Did you drive a car into the lake?

Do you want more of a story

as a gift on a postcard

to a secret admirer, as a token of affection,

as a guard against the fashion, as a volume of trysts,

in a pronouncement of your politics, as a whim,

as a monument to defeat

in a moment when the vanguard upbraids you?

For your time on earth did love

shape you?

Is time passing brutal and natural?

Does it make you think bravely of war,

of the best of civilization in makeshift camps?

Was it a battle of time versus dream,

fought over a dugout of sheets?

Did you account for the dark plastic on the windows?

Did you sleep in your dress?

When did you become old or dead?

Would you behold what is tender and still

when you went in for a kiss

and came out a magnifying glass?

Did you go downstairs to read?

Why weren’t you listening to what was said?

Did the end of life make you sad,

so you couldn’t write or think?

Isn’t it when the strings are taut

you play with complete abandonment?

Does no one hear?

Mummy of a Lady Named Jemutesonekh Thomas James XXI Dynasty My body holds its shape. The genius is intact. Will I return to Thebes? In that lost country The eucalyptus trees have turned to stone. Once, branches nudged me, dropping swollen blossoms, And passionflowers lit my father’s garden. Is it still there, that place of mottled shadow, The scarlet flowers breathing in the darkness? I remember how I died. It was so simple! One morning the garden faded. My face blacked out. On my left side they made the first incision. They washed my heart and liver in palm wine— My lungs were two dark fruit they stuffed with spices. They smeared my innards with a sticky unguent And sealed them in a crock of alabaster. My brain was next. A pointed instrument Hooked it through my nostrils, strand by strand. A voice swayed over me. I paid no notice. For weeks my body swam in sweet perfume. I came out scoured. I was skin and bone. They lifted me into the sun again And packed my empty skull with cinnamon. They slit my toes; a razor gashed my fingertips. Stitched shut at last, my limbs were chaste and valuable, Stuffed with paste of cloves and wild honey. My eyes were empty, so they filled them up, Inserting little nuggets of obsidian. A basalt scarab wedged between my breasts Replaced the tinny music of my heart. Hands touched my sutures. I was so important! They oiled my pores, rubbing a fragrance in. An amber gum oozed down to soothe my temples. I wanted to sit up. My skin was luminous, Frail as the shadow of an emerald. Before I learned to love myself too much, My body wound itself in spools of linen. Shut in my painted box, I am a precious object. I wear a wooden mask. These are my eyelids, Two flakes of bronze, and here is my new mouth, Chiseled with care, guarding its ruby facets. I will last forever. I am not impatient— My skin will wait to greet its old complexions. I’ll lie here till the world swims back again. When I come home the garden will be budding, White petals breaking open, clusters of night flowers, The far-off music of a tambourine. A boy will pace among the passionflowers, His eyes no longer two bruised surfaces. I’ll know the mouth of my young groom, I’ll touch His hands. Why do people lie to one another?

Letter to a Stranger Thomas James

I In April we will pierce his body. It is March. Snow is dust over the branches. A pony hunches in the orchard. I stand at the frozen mouth of the river, Thinking of you. In the house where you live Frost glitters on the windows Like uncounted pieces of silver. Already they are preparing the wine and the bread. II The field is banked with purple asters And a spill of mustard flowers. The earth has taken on terrible proportions. Out in an unused meadow The wildflowers have already covered The delicate bones of an Indian. Bees are flying across the meadow To a hive under the rafters of the barn. Someone is leading a horse with crippled bones Into the spikes of clover. III Alexander died this morning, Leaving his worldly possessions To the strongest. I watched an empire fade across his lips. They propped him in the sun a while, And then three women came to scour his body Like a continent. I am afraid of what the world will do. Only this afternoon I heard two worms conversing In the shadow of his breastbone. I slipped out of the palace And entered a vein of gillyflowers On the edge of potter’s field. I will not be missed. No one even noticed. IV I have been thinking of the son I would like to have. The leaves have all gone yellow Overnight, wrinkling like hands In the updraught. I drove my car by the creek Because I had nowhere else to go. The milkweed’s delicate closet had been fractured, Filling the air with rumors. Despite all I could do, the sumac Had taken on the color of a mouth. Tonight, I perceive the young girls In my mother’s blood Letting their seed pass by unnoticed, A red nativity. V Last night they dragged the canal For an old man’s body. Now he is singing for a hook Just below water level. A branch of ice is splitting open Across each window, And snow is dismantling the weeds Like the breakable furniture of a boudoir. I have been rereading your letters. It is too cold for a virgin birth to occur Even in the frosty suburbs Of a wildflower. VI I have learned to camouflage myself in church, Masking my body With the body of a saint. Last night frost glazed the face of Mary Magdalene, And snow rode up to the altar windows. Before morning, the sparrows came down To the body of Saint Francis. Now he is upholstered in oak leaves Like a living room chair. This morning we are preparing a crucifixion. I am thinking of you now. With the velvet at my knees And the silverware shining on the altar And the stained glass moving out of focus And the cross veiled in black, I am present for the news of an enormous death. I take the bread on my tongue Like one of Christ’s fingers, And the wine rides through my breast Like a dark hearse. All the while I am thinking of you. An avalanche of white carnations Is drifting across your voice As it drifts across the voices of confession. But the snow keeps whispering of you over and over.

For a Snow Leopard in October Lucie Brock-Broido

Stay, little ounce, here in Fleece and leaf with me, in the evermore

Where swans trembled in the lake around our bed of hay and morningCame each morning like a felt cloak billowing

Across the most pale day. It was the color of a steeple disappearingIn an old Venetian sky. Or of a saint tamping the grenadine

Of his heavy robes before the Blessing of the Animals.I have heard tell of men who brought Great Pyrenees, a borzoi, or

Some pocket mice, baskets of mourning doves beneath their wicker lids,A chameleon on a leash from the Prussian circuses,

And, from the farthest caucuses, some tundra wolves in pairs.

In a meadow I had fallen

As deep in sleep as a trilobite in the red clay of the centuries.Even now, just down our winding road, I can hear the children blanketing

Themselves to sleep in leaves from maple trees. No bad dreams will come to them I know

Because once, in the gone-ago, I was a lynx as well, safe as a tiger-irisIn its silt on the banks of the Euphrates, as you were. Would they take

You now from me, like Leonardo’s sleeve disappearing in The air. And when I woke I could not wake

You, little sphinx, I could not keep you here with me.Anywhere, I could not bear to let you go. Stay here

In our clouded bed of wind and timothy with me. Lie here with me in snow.

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