Arsenic Lobster
poetry journal |
Issue Nine Winter 2005 |
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After the Reunion, She Reads her Diary E. Starling The towel, I remember, was pale yellow. The bath, too hot, so I turned it to cold, went to the kitchen for toast and butter, vibrations / scoriate / abrade, tissue, bone, what is all of this trembling? For years he was in your room, cartoon of red paper cylinders, pizzazz of nitroglycerine inserted tight, like gel, into the hole. The match, struck. The hemophiliac church-camp counselor, black hair splashing over her skinny shoulders, wants to be a missionary. You, little six, are her aboriginal, her small uncivilized, the unconverted on the narrow mud path through deciduous Ohio trees between cabin and lake. She says, God will help you stop crying but you will not stop, just as she, a tiny cut or mosquito bite if scratched too hard, once she starts bleeding, she will not stop. In the violence of his leaving, you pretended to sleep. The other girls poked at you and said she’s faking, they said they saw your eyelids flutter but you did not come down from the bed in the upstairs of that cabin. They took their nature walk without you. Smell of the lake, pines, song of birds, a sickness. Her skinny body. Does this embarrass you? Her prayer to God the Father, her bowing and kneeling, her white skin, the continual, worshipful giving of thanks for all He has done and will do --- what could prepare you for the slow slide between person, she is uninterested in your confusion, mine: hold still and you may be shot, smell of trouble by now undeniable. (Famous, aging poet in his hospital room after open heart surgery watches sparrows from his window, two of them attempting to kill a third. He bangs the thick glass, shouts stop that stop that, waves his arms, helpless, the others in the ward thinking, crazy old man -- him, not caring what they think.) Little redbud rescinded, little annulment, how can I articulate the blast? And then, girl in pale yellow too tender for touch, God, the assassin, calling, calling --- half the time, she, by the phone, waiting -- Even so, you knew peace -- black lake glittering with stars, parents, mountains, bones of your hips -- At dinner, despite your manners, a woman in a red dress jumps from the high hotel window. Another, a knife between the folds of her skirt. A third, eight year old girl sleeping with her baseball bat. On the table, roast beef, potatoes. Someone must have told you there are certain things that should not be discussed at the table. For example, you wouldn’t want to talk about someone who died. There are children present. Little faces looking up, Holding wonder like a cup --- What note can I leave on the kitchen table? What blossoms? What always cheerful departure? Dream of the people living next door, the daughter, imploring, Mom, I mean it! This is serious! Hole drilled in the inclined aquifer, our impervious rock -- Monday, still crying. Tuesday, Jesus will fix everything. Prayers amidst the poison ivy. Wednesday/Thursday, who could prepare anyone for this (hold still and you may be shot), Friday, smell of trouble by now undeniable --- (In the waiting room before the abortion, May morning just weeks before graduation, seniors in their cars, horns & revving engines -- when we knew the wait would be hours I found the phone in the hall, called information for the number, that beauty parlor I’d been to only once, not that far, fifteen minutes, I could make it – I need an appointment badly -- could I come right now / I would have to be back right away, I need to have my hair - just cut, no, only cut -- and turning, turning, what am I doing? what – ) Sweetest body of my body, in the violence of your leaving, sleep deprivation, interrogation, lights all night, hours and hours of questions, and the beatings –- who could feel any of this or remember what happened --- A long time ago, says the mother. Everyone’s abused, she says. Or am I here to call you back? But flowers on the table, music / trees / etc., dancing – at least a little --- The towel, I remember, was pale yellow. The bath, too hot – I will be painting, this much you will know, and listening to the leaves of the maple (how long – to make a simple sentence) where as a child you would sit talking with the fairies -- |
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About E. Starling |