Two more oldies but goodies (?)

Once upon a time I knew enough Latin to write Latin poetry... maybe.  You be the judge 😛

Interclusa

Numquam futuro lacrima-
tur sanguinem corpus meum.
Cum candet luna alvus mea
videtur esse ingens pirum.
Nitor genibus in nive ululo-
que frigido exanimique. Dum
capra parit infecunda sum.

Aestas

In herbis altis aridis
clandestinis duae fidis
confirmant amicitiam.
Ocellis pullioribus
et quasi aquam manibus
complexis spargunt gratiam.

העברית

כמעט מעבר לסף הזיכרון
היית שם, עם פנים שזופות
מלאות נקבוביות שהרגשתי ממוזלת לראות מקרוב.
באמצע הלילה שכבנו בשקי שינה
וחיכינו לצאת לטיול זריחה שלבסוף לא התקיים
(בעטיים של עננים שהסתירו את השחר העולה).
אני זוכרת את ההקלה ואת האכזבה --
ללכת שוב לישון בלי לעמול עבורו נראה כהנאה ריקה.
אבל קודם לכן, בשעה שחיכינו
הסתכלנו זאת בזאת, ודיברנו
ונגענו בידיים, עד שאמרת שאולי זה לא מתאים.
והייתי יותר מדי צעירה, אבל העמדתי פנים שהבנתי
והרגשתי מבוגרת ונבונה, כאילו הפקדת סוד נדיר בידיי.
בשדה התעופה, קראת בספר עברי
שורה על שורה של תיבות קטנות, עם מילה באנגלית פה ושם.
לא הרגשתי שאיבדתי אותך ביום ההוא
כי אם ששלחת אותי לדרכי, ושהייתי מסוגלת לו.

שמך אינו זכור לי
אבל השתכפלת בחלוף השנים.
היית ציפי, ששרה ביער כשהלכה להשתין
(זה היה רק לאחר שנה אחת).
והיית נעמי, שישבתי ברצפת הפרוזדור ליד משרדה, וידעתי שאסור לי להיכנס
אולם חיכיתי אף על פי כן, מלאת תקווה ובושה.
והיית אביטל, שקראה לי ספר ילדים כשבכיתי בבית קפה,
ועשתה קולות שונות לכל דמות.
והיית גם שירה, שלימדה אותנו את מילות היחס
והשתמשה בתיק שלה כדוגמה -- חפצים "ב"-משהו --
אך חדלה לפתע, והייתי בטוחה שהיא נזכרה ששם היה לה טמפון.

ואחר כך היית סיגלית, שהשאילה לי את צעיפה כשהיה לי קר בכיתה.
הופתעתי מחציית הגבולות הזאת, מתנה כה פשוטה שהרעיפה עליי חמימות
שהחזקתי בה למשך השנה השלמה הבאה.
אצל סיגלית בכיתי במרכז ההדפסה במרתף, ובמכונית, ובכיתה
וסימסתי בתעתיק, ודאגתי על כאב חלציה.
שלחתי לה מכתבים וחיבורים וגלי אור.
ישבתי אצלה כמו עמוס עוז הצעיר אצל זלדה, וקראנו על זלדה ועל עמוס עוז הצעיר.
היא לא נבהלה מכאב ולא מתשוקה
ועלה על דעתי שאולי אינני כל כך נוראית.
אחר כך, בעולם אחר,
מישהי קראה לי אמיצה.

באתי אפוא לארץ הבוערת מקנאות ומאדישות
לחפש את מורות מורותיי ומורותיהן וכן הלאה
(ואולי מורה אחד או שניים גם כן)
ולהיות מורבצת על ידי אחת, צְוֵויי, תַלַתֶה שפות
ולזכות, אם ירצה השם, לאהבה הבוטה כל כך
שמנפצת אותי לרסיסים
ויולדת אותי
שלמה
חדשה
וישנה נושנה.

Yiddish and Hebrew

OK, I'm writing this in English as a sort of "neutral territory." (Plus, that way it will not take five hours to write, and non-Yiddish-speakers will also be able to read it.)

I'm starting an intensive Hebrew class on Monday. I've been aware of this date coming all throughout my Summer of Yiddish. I've been thinking of it as the date when I will have to break up with Yiddish. The reason is because I sort of think that I have to be serially monogamous with languages at this point, since I don't know any of them super well, and because a big way that I learn language is by "clicking it into the slot" of the language that I automatically think in, talk to myself in, listen to music in, watch movies in, etc.... in other words, I create a small immersion environment in my head. And I also learn better when I fall in love with the language ... which seems to happen in a serially monogamous way.

On retroactively convincing myself to go out on my bike on a summer Saturday evening to raid post-yard-sale free piles

Because it’s cooler now,

because I can,

and because last Saturday I found a red fleece body suit and Bachelor Brothers’ Bed & Breakfast.

Because if I take my bike out on a jaunt I will subsequently be more motivated to bring it inside so that it doesn’t get rained on (that’s the real reason),

because it’s not actually as dark as I thought,

because this is the only time when I’ll find myself on Auburn Street for any other reason besides being lost,

because who knew there was this burnt-out building in the middle of town, and who knew it was a music center,

and because my body knows to avoid the hard places, except when it takes me directly to them, like for example, here’s where my ex-girlfriend used to live, and here’s where my never-girlfriend used to live.

Because there’s an easel and it’s free but it won’t fit in my backpack,

because there are too many words in my head and I need to clear them out,

because there DEFINITELY are too many words in my head because that was a huge pothole that I almost just landed in,

because if I go far enough in any direction I will hit the highway,

because not everyone in this town is rich, who knew,
like when my brother and I biked behind the grocery store and found the trailer park and the soggy mattresses by the polluted stream where the homeless people camp, and we biked through silently, and when we biked out I looked at him and he looked at me, and he said, well the fish restaurant wasn’t in there,

and because this is the fourth cat I’ve seen.

Because that car let me have the right-of-way, to take a left turn, in the dark, on my bike,

because that’s free, but it’s an armchair, and won’t fit in my backpack,

because you’d think a mosquito couldn’t hold on when I’m going this fast,

and because that dark thing is the river, let’s not bike into it, folks.

Because I like biking on bridges, one pedal-thrust up the arch, then glide across and down,

because that’s the second pile of free flowerpots that I’ve seen, and they would fit in my backpack, but I need to keep up my reputation as a plant-killer,

because if this is a good neighborhood for foreign-exchange-student-host-family-seeking flyers, probably it’s not a good neighborhood for garage-sale-leftover free piles,

and because when did garage sales start being called yard sales, and why didn’t anyone notify me?

Because I mean I know this town is by a lake, but, I mean, it really smells like lake out here,

because that’s free but it’s a birdfeeder nailed to a two-by-four and come on people, that really can’t fit in my backpack,

because there’s a shopping cart on that corner and people conferring quietly around a pickup truck on that corner, and I know enough not to hesitate, to just keep going,

because that’s my professor’s house, isn’t it, yes it is, no it’s not, yes it is,

because I have to choose between impaling myself with that crabapple branch and impaling those people with my handlebar, easy choice,

because that looks like a free box but actually it’s someone’s recycling,

and because I’m okay with these words wilting and dying in the humidity before they make it inside and onto paper.

Slim pickins tonight.

Reclamation

Beneath black lace shot through with burgundy,

beneath teal and pink homespun woven twill,

beneath stiff cotton calico printed with fish,

lies a bright crumpled bedsheet, pilly from previous ownership.

Down on the floor, the fitted sheet curls up,

pillbug-style, until shears snip off

long curly worms of elastic. Docile now,

the sheet settles thinly over the floorboards.

A template is traced on ninety-nine cent newsprint.

paper purchased for drawing naked bodies

now helps clothe them. Five rectangles

yield three flat panels. Front. Back. Sleeve.

Leftover horizontal sheet hems want to become

shirt hems. The sleeves receive the offering,

but the torso panels sling sideways,

cut so that they will stripe lengthwise.

At this stage, the shirt animates. Yellow,

threaded through a needle that last knew a quilt,

sews two short shoulder seams, two side seams.

only the sleeves wait to be de-amputated.

No time now. Tempting to wear the torso

to the dance, but raw edges seem too risky.

soon, though, this rainbow shirt will join

the soul clothes: red-ribbed body suit, knitted corset, tattoo.

The needle is my mother’s.

This shirt cost me seven hours and seventy-five cents.

I will wear it because in it I will feel naked.

Women

What worms its way through the firewall:
the cut of a black blouse against
her scapula. Cover my eyes,
walk backwards into the inevitable.
Even the Committee can’t convince me
that her body against mine
doesn’t anchor
my spine.

Weight

Agatha’s hand

is heavy on the

velvet waist of my

half-laced bodice. The

meaning of weight: I

will soon sprawl beneath

brocade, her body

slung beneath my skirts.

She will snort, heave, stand,

stagger, and slam out.

Still, the weight of her

hand thrills through my thigh.

Let me lean, press my

hip against her suede

skin. Beneath my skirt

my slip rides up. I

feel my bodice crease

beneath her severe

fingertips. I drop

my eyes. Hide their sheen.

The weight deserts my

waist. Her hands lumber

across my breast. A

tug. Dangling ribbons

yield. Her terse voice: “A

double bow will keep

ribbons from skipping

out.” Hands slide beneath

my collar. Compress

my shoulders. I gleam.

I’d slump beneath her

pleats. I’m thread. Let her

weave me into twill.

I’d succumb. Her hands

are still. I stand, red.

I am nine. She is nineteen.

I want to wrap her wavy dark hair
around my arm.  Sometimes she catches
her lower lip between her teeth, and then
I can see that there is a way in. I want
to reach out with my pinky finger,
touch the corner of her mouth. The fissure.
But it disappears quickly. Her mouth
is a thin line. It is the path I walk.
It leads to her eyes, which are made
of winter soil. I have a spade.
I am stocky for a nine-year old. If I jump
on the top of the blade,
even frozen earth will give way.
Once, she hugs me. Her ribs are railroad tracks.
I have always been on the train. If I squeeze harder,
she will squeeze harder. She will squeeze me
into a ball of tinfoil. She will squeeze me
into a one-inch cube of bread. I will be small
enough. I will be allowed in. But the railroad tracks
are made of bone, not steel.
She disentangles herself from my wordless arms
and takes a breath. I put my head down on my knees.
I’m still here, but she has chosen air.

Stunted Sestina Instigated by a Corroded Beloved

Today I’m punctual. Still bare in here. Across

the conference hall the mingling starts. Aware of Her,

of course, glass flower shoved into my throat. Her network

congeals around her. Mission: I’m supposed to network

here, strut my stuff and seal a snarky deal across

this sewer of convention. Will not speak to Her.

I’ll speak to Larva Boy here. Only glance at Her

by accident. Untangle ratty strands of network,

that nest of icy shards. The seed. I’ll come across

the things inside of me I need. I need to cross her off my network.

My finger fits there.

Should I take her

to the lake? I want

to touch her freckly-

toothy glint when she

expects a frog. No,

I don’t. I want

to struggle on behalf

of her ribs and my

clavicle. I want to

inform her that she

has the right to refuse

rancid food offered

by overconfident lovers.

No hike. No lake. Just

a driving finger that

speaks against her

sternum.

Breath Unbound

Breast beneath a blouse.

Burrow.

Prim breast, not pointy.

Touch and it bites.

But if you don’t touch, you'll die.

Bargain: Paint a portrait.

  Touch only to portray.

 There is a deadline.

Deadline.  Dead.  Line.

Dead without the line,

bold breast’s profile,

but touch that border past the deadline, and—

scald with scale and scab.  Seep.

Don’t touch again, then.

But the portraiteer no Pygmalion—

in the poverty of her words,

painted breasts never breathe.

Breastless.  Death.

Breastless?  Yet—

self-slide a hand down.

Fish around.

Found.  Two mounds.

Steady. Solid.

New sound: another’s hand.

Ground where two can stand.

why do you need me to be a Woman?

if you go mining in my vagina,

it’s not what you find that will blind you.

i hold no knives.

the surprise is what you won’t find—

i stow no eggs waiting to become lives.

surprise: you won’t mind.

my vagina still shines.

Semi-Crown of Sort-of-Sonnets for Sasha

I

I met a girl named Sasha yesterday.

She asked me how her blue-gray eyes appeared

when she stared through me to the wall beyond.

“The mirror doesn’t show me how they look,”

she said. I knew, because I too had tried

to see my eyes unfocused in the glass.

“I know,” I told her, wondering, because

who knew another person thought of eyes?

Of retinas and focus length, and how

observers classify one’s crooked gaze?

“I like you.” That’s what Sasha said. “I like

you too,” I said, and leaned into her arms.

Betrayal

In the summer you write me a letter

about the smell of porch wood in the sun.

In the winter

you and I

stand in the blistering cold

and sing a duet at a bus stop.

When winter comes again

you say

“I don’t like to sing with you

and I never have.”

I ask myself

could it possibly have been you

who noticed the smell of wood?

I don’t believe you exist.

I don’t believe you have ever existed.

The porch-wood you.

I tell you this.

Do you have an opinion?

The phone rings.

You’ll tell me your opinion later.

It’s later

and you have found me in my room.

I ask silently,

What is your opinion?

You offer me a pack of unwanted

yellow flowery tissues.

Is it a peace offering?

I don’t want them

but would rather take them than waste them.

You know this and

sneer at me for it.

Not a peace offering, then.

What just happened? asks my roommate.

Laughter rips through me like retching.

Violent,

unexpected,

unwelcome,

unquenchable.

It’s later still.

A spider jumps into my life like an

unmet deadline.

I leap away and stand back breathing hard, wielding a

yellow flowery tissue,

this my bayonet against my harmless opponent.

How silly;

and yet I can’t let him go,

can’t let him inhabit my bed like a

forgotten errand,

lurking at the margins

unseen but at times suddenly

urgent.

I lunge and hold my breath,

willing myself absent for the moment of death.

But even though I hold my breath and close my eyes,

I am still far too present at the moment when

a tiny spider infrastructure

fractures under my thumb.

The crunch,

like a bite,

makes me jump and shiver.

I am shuddering. But I

revel in the

fate of your

yellow flowery tissue.

How quivery it looks now,

faux forty-cent optimism

lined with something dead and

leggy.

How crystalline.

The Chackocat

Worlds are altered rather than destroyed. –Democritus

The window is slightly open.

I try and try to slam it shut,

  so nothing can come in and hurt me.

But on the outside ledge

  there is a small mountain lion

  with its paw already through the crack.

Claws tangle in my braid

tangle in my chenille sweater.

There’s no help for it.

So I let him burst through the crack

leap into my arms

or across my shoulders.

I stroke him. He is a Chackocat.

He goes limp in my arms,

touches my face with a soft, clawless paw

his footpad like human skin against my forehead.

I have the distinct sensation that he is saying,

“I told you so,”

  that he, in cahoots with the women in the kitchen,

  has been trying to teach me some lesson

  about trust.

We're never left alone within the colorless walls --
  there's the eternally vegetative matriarch
  or her unwelcome elder sibling. 

Besides, my best friend's father keeps his illegitimate family

  sequestered off the back hallway.

(Why oh why do my dreams

  always include a reason for restraint?)

Even so, the situation is too inviting to ignore.

For a second, he becomes a dictionary.

I know how to titillate a dictionary.

Page 194, second column, toward the middle,

  or if you prefer, try 439.

But it is the Chackocat, not the dictionary

  who knows how to reach me.

(Cats don't have much competition

when it comes to artistry of the tongue.)

* * *

In the morning,

  I tamp down a sloping snowbank

  with my beige boot.

In the powdery solid snow

  I feel the furry firm

  flank of the Chackocat.

Wisdom

I held the hand

of silk

and sand

And her laughter bubbled

thick

and unfamiliar

Like a lobster

emerging

from the muck.

A poem I wrote in middle school

Re-found this one recently and thought it would be fun to share.

The Fish Angel

As I walked beside the sea
I saw a girl with golden hair
As I passed she looked at me
As though I weren’t there.

She leapt into the waves
Like a mermaid child
Seeming nearly as brave
but not quite as wild.

There was grace in her motion
As she dodged the water’s flow
And the cold of the ocean
Set her eyes and cheeks aglow.

I watched her every moment
Of the quickly passing day
And then she tossed me coral
And swiftly swam away.