And when you are stripped
of cloak and sword
armor gone
skin exposed to the gathering storm--
and the storm always gathers
always upwelling swirls of
did he eat? who did he hurt?
does he cry? Why this rains?
Your soul feeding his soul
as your life fed his life
invistble ubilical pulsing between you
worry, love, exhaustion,knowlge
that some day it will be severed
and what will be left of you?
Hard to be a hero
enmeshed in care
of others
every leavetaking
an abandonment,
needs scaled
one atop the other
rib-crushing
traitjacket.
Easy not to be
body forgotten
in its encasement,
easy not to hear
your heartbeat
in the ceaseless clamour.
Every day, sun rises,
sun falls. A distant call
to look up
shed it all, let the wind
lift your arms
let it all fly.
Once
you were gilded
dawn climbed your shoulders
haloed your head
Once, you drank the sun
life champagne--
felt it bubble within
When did the world shift
from yours to theirs?
When did you become
a black hole
sucking at distant light?
Now they all dance
to music you cannot hear.
Every body more graceful
every face more lovely.
You are ash circles,
the dead weight off flesh
in friction with itself,
Walk, and self chafes against self.
You have proofed
overnight, ballooning disappointment.
Consistency is key.
And boundaries. Boundaries--
again and again,
I review: Don't walk back.
No regrets. Say it once
and hold. He cries
when I say no chocolate.
Forgets the warning: if you don't LISTEN,
if you don't stop. Now!
Please, he pleads
I'm good now. I didn't kick
since I got home.
M heart cracking.
Hand running through his swear-soft hair
his amber-flecked eyes.
Please, Imma, please.
One last chance.
And though I know it shoud be know
out slips yes.
-You can't take that! / But I want to / Stop! Stop kicking him! Can't you see he's crying ?! / smiling into my eyes / But it's fun/ / in my contacts, the psychiatrist, the school psychologist, the guidance counselor, the clinic social worker, the social service social worker // when you sleep / in the passage / between battle and battle // past the day's sharp teeth / I shoot messages / wait for answers / any answer / parenting by committee / because the one thing I know / is I don't know / what the hell I should be doing.
On my third quest
up Yehuda HaNasi--
drop off, pickup, pickup again--
I want to believe
I'm the hero
of my own story.
I feel like the car.
Or the ass.
Giddyup donkey.
Pack apple squeezies,
and baby carrots, pack
crackers, nuts and tangarines.
They won't eat them anyway.
In other lands, women jump handsprings
with hair unbound.
In other lands, they video themselves
setting photos on fire. I look
at the gloaming gold
torching the trees. How it sets fire
to yesterday's puddles.
We play hide and seek
in the dry fountain
De-escalation is key. Lower
your voice. Crouch
down. Slow your body,
though your heart
might pound and if you tense
he’ll feel it. Be calm.
Listen! He screams,
You don’t listen to me!
Stare at the gaping maw
the screaming teeth. Feel
nothing. I thought, he gulps
I thought you said…
But I didn’t say, I want
to say, but don’t–
to de-escalate.
I thought you said
it’s for me. I want
it to be mine.
And I want to give him
what is mine
to swerve the storm
to escape.
No, I say. Walk--
slowly, slowly
--to not escalate.
Recursive
On my forty-fifth birthday, my credit
card gave to me:
30% off at Fox (clothes and home goods)
(calculate school shirts, sweatpants, are PJs included?)
a hand lotion from Sabon
a cake of choice at Zariffa,
which I will eat
though I know I shouldn’t.
For the first time
in almost ten years,
I will not
stock up on baby clothes.
For the first time
in almost ten years
there is no baby
strapped against my chest
or billowing my belly.
Wait and wait for the weight to lift
only to try to weigh down again–
blanket, vest, power workouts–
ways to broaden the britteling bones
make being dense
and pin my shadow in place
to be sewn down with a lost thimble.
Of course everything circles round
and one day I’ll look back
and laugh–
or cry–
because all water incubates
in the sea and will return
to the sea
even our tears, with their salty traces
and our salt blood
stained red by iron
like the scraps of metal
in the bucket that seeps rust
darkening the water
that will replenish my rickety lemon tree
whose scrawny branches
struggle to bud
or even unfurl their wings
unlike the irridecent sunbird
that darts between them
searching for the sugar water
I forgot to leave in its feeder
because leftovers and decay
are another’s nourishment
mother other udder
merging and switching
like rippes distorting the pond
that flee my finger
and then still
resolving to a face.
What do you see
making its way towards you?
Will you rise
Or will you fall?
For full chapter, click here
This chapter continues several of the leitworts of the previous chapter, repeating the thematic hand (y'd) and heavy-honor (k'v'd). Yet the root k'v'd, which previously echoed the despairing "honor is lost from Israel" of the defeated Israelites, here gains deeper resonance, stretching back all the way to the Exodus, with Pharaoh's heavy (k'v'd) heart: "Why harden you hearts as Egypt and Pharoah did" warn the Philistine magicians.
And indeed, the Philistines take heed. Now, instead of taking the Ark as they did before, they send it (sh'l'kh)--another leitword, that echoes Pharaoh's sending forth the Israelites. The power of God's hand loosens the human hand. Relinquishin the control they previously celabrated, the Philistines embody their elided shame in forever-gold, offereing it to God.
Yet the relinquishment is not total: rather, it is a provisinal test. They free the Ark, placing it on a wagon drawn by two nursing cows, and see if it can override the biological imperative of motherhood to make its way back (the last of the chapter's keywords), rising and fallng to Isralite terratory. This "seeing" is the last remnant of transgresive control, and remains dangerous. The Isralites, overjoyed to see the Ark coming towrads them through the fields, are punished for their casual gaze.
The story which was introduced with the declaration that "God continued to show himself to Samuel in Shilo" closes with a punishment for those who gaze on God unbiddne outside Shilo's confines.
No one you
warns
about the shame--
the body turned swamp,
turned quicksand --
how the hollows gape
every time you walk, every time
you climb. Sliding, sliding,
drown—
after breaking, the body
will not seal. Bleed
for a month, three months
eternity. The terror
of sitting. Of shitting.
Put ice. Witch
hazel. Cry your eyes closed.
No one warns you
how the jointed boat
pelvis will creak, rock.
leak. How bodies
once mended, a ridge
of stitching remains,
like a seamed sock
rubbing your shoe.
How you can hate
your own stench
wash and wash,
and never feel clean.
Lord
of hosts
Lord
of knowings
teach
me the multiplicity
of this
body that opens
and
shuts without volition, quivering
like
a vibrating string.
Lord
of endings
beginnings
and thresholds
where
I lie toppled
eyes fixed upward
curled
hands conches
feet transforming
back to
the tail
that
will buy me back my voice.
You said! he screams, you said !
You always lie!
Explain how the buses aren’t running.
Explain we won’t be able to get home.
He is a furious whirlwind, unappeasable.
Every word a promise, and so
every word is a lie.
I hate you! he shrieks. I hate
you. You're the worst mother
in the world. You’re pee. You’re poo.
You’re all the disgust
ing things in the world.”
Vomit and spitup and urine and shit.
Is that not what mothering is?
I want to tell him how
his beautiful face turns ugly
how I hate the snarl of his bared teeth,
how the shades of his eyes pull down
over his soul. But as his mother,
I say Well, I love you. Swallow
the bile. Try to see him
beneath the animal-rictus.
Is this not keeping a promise,
even if unspoken?
For five days, the rain fell.
Inched across the ceiling,
bubbled the walls.
Drops bloomed beneath the window ledge
trailed vines towards the floor.
When I laid my daughter down to sleep
the pillow was soaked
deep red, dyeing my hand.
A treacherous puddle glinted below.
I took them out of the room,
laid a mattress on the floor
"we're camping out," I said
Tap, tap tap went the rain on the door
cold fingers reached down the ceiling and walls.
Nothing can be fixed
till the rain stops.
The way out
is blocked by a pool full
of dirt, debris, and torn bags.
I wipe the floors.
Line the windows with towels.
Overhead. the plane shrieks
like a phantom diving for the kill.
Listen to the thunder, my daughter says.
When there is lightning,
does God tear a line through the sky?
After Danusha Laméris
I've been thinking about the way, when you walk
past a forgotten flower pot, it seems so easy
to snatch it. Or how overhanging oranges
tempt us, a leftover, perhaps, from Eden. How easily
“I want,” becomes “mine”.
And sometimes, when we hold
a marker, someone else will grab it.
Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. But
we want that extra big piece
of chocolate cake, with the perfect
swirl of cream. Want the purple marker,
and that specific “Gummy bear” song.
We have so little control, always. So far
from the enclosed garden, with a heavy hanging
fig tree and a gate that can slam shut. Only
these two hands. Not so large. Not so powerful.
These hands, and the weapons we pick
up along the way. Sticks. Words.
What if these are our only nodes of exchange,
when we pass each other on our solitary prowls,
erecting fleeting temples to our gnawing needs. Saying, “Mine”
“Give or I’ll take it.” Saying, “Let’s see you stop me. Please.”
Can I have a chocolate coin? he asks, But you took one without permission, I say. What if I'm good, he says, what if I'm good the whole day?
Do you love me Imma, he asks, do you?
Of course I do, I say, tired,
Because some kids in my gan day their imma hates them, he says.
Do you love me Imma, do you? he asks
Of course I love you, I say
Because I like to hear you say it, he says. Can I have a chocolate coin?
Browned leaves litter the pavement
like clawed hands
or scattered flames.
I love you, my toddler tells me,
digging into my cheeks.
Do you love me?
I bury
my nose in his wispy hair.
He grabs my wrist,
moves it up and down
his cheek. When I draw away
he pinches me.
How do we love each other,
let us count the ways
and how much,
and how little
and who more.
How long will you lie to me?
A reddened vine encircles
the lemon tree, a leaf cluster
rising to ring the finger
when I have you
heart sliced open
prostate on my knees
what do we do
with the openings,
what lies in wait inside?
Too cold, she says
snatching back her hands
I add hot. No
More. Too hot, she says.
Pours the cup out.
The tights are too tight
and the wrong pink
and have lines.
She puts on the blue
pale bulb of her right toe
exposed.
They're torn, I say,
and don't match.
It's what I like, she retorts.
Back up dress in her bag--
just in case. Water
bottle exactly full
Hold me, she says
I need you to hold me.
On the couch. Exactly
in the regular spot,
her slight body
burrowing into mine.
So hard, to face the world
As flayed as Marsiyas
insides exposed
to the wind's every tremor.
My baby spins
burnished gold
etched in time
by the dying light.
Please don't uproot the rooted
don't forget the hope
the children sing, oblivious
as mothers weep into their hair.
Return me, and I will return
each word overripe with import.
The planes' overhead whine
mingles with the oud's dirge.
when will we manage
full confession?
In this golden hour
I give chocolate.
In this golden hour,
I give juice
I give all the sweet
that is too sweet
unable to hold back.
Let us fall into the hands of God
for his mercies are great
the music beats
as the wide-wombed
evening embraces all of us.
