We insist on staying
in this house, even after reasons
betray us. Since mother left,
three floods and two thefts,
gradual disappearances.
We’ve watched our house repeatedly
devastated, one glass trinket going
at a time. And then the coffee table,
the wall paper, light fixtures, entire rooms.
But we are not moving.
Ms. Hagedorn, I think it is my turn
to be seventeen, my turn
to write that you are not the only one
who will scour for a home
in a city that glittered
in your dreams. I too
am losing my mother.
She dissipates in strange weather
under the beating of a different sun.
In this old house, the night-blue
rug that she had gotten is packed
away with her moth-eaten curtains,
sun dresses, wedding gown.
The living room is bleached white
and I am the only one who can feel
the ghosts of our old furniture.
When I am particularly alone,
I unpack the boxes that keep
these ghosts. I drape
the blue rug over my body
like a blanket, reasoning
to no one, because I cannot remember
my mother’s voice, because I cannot
remember the color of her hair.
Through the thin wall
that separates
this room from
my brother’s,
I cannot help
but hear a low
drawl punctuated
by the letter S:
not so much a kettle
blowing, but closer
to the sound of old
women hushing
you in church,
eager to hear
better the sermon
of a fat priest,
sweaty palmed and swaying
drunkenly at the pulpit.
The gospel for today
is taken from a book
according to the providence
of the father. Thus the homily
will proceed as such:
honor him. S as in quite
simply. From here, I
imagine my brother
staring at a shaking
head, tired eyes glazed,
droplets of spit
barely missing
his soft face.
And what I hear is not
a hiss, exactly, but
S the way that flesh
would burn.
S as in the sound
of pissing or
perhaps in the
blossoming
of a stench.
Earlier this evening, a friend showed me a poem that breathlessly, reminded me of you - which is not to say that I remember much, only that before tonight, there had been no articulating:
you and your chances of knowing the words to my favorite song, you and the yellow flash of a camera, the weight of disposable chopsticks in my hand, guitar strings, a black pen. You and the manner in which you plucked from an ocean of graffitti, on the farthest wall of the room, my small handwriting to continue. You and the Tuesday commute - entire, precise - all in the course of a poem.
And this is what I utter to resuscitate: YOU ARE NOT A POET. And here, in five years’ worth of convictions, here I believe the sound of my voice even more than the sound of that poem: you never were. The resolute whisper.
But later in the night, in the expulsion of a terrified sigh, I realize this: that what I remember of you, I remember only in fragments of poetry; so that instead of this makes me sad or I am lonely or fuck you, I am devastated by the memory of your hands
cradled between the leaves of my notebook, smack in the middle of a sentence.
I remember you saying: after I close this, don’t look for what I’ve written. One day, in a space between line breaks, you will find these words.
I remember how I lost that notebook before learning how to break lines. I remember my empty hands.
from Of the Sorrows, a work in progress
and so
the name preceded me—
echoing from your heart
through the hollow of your throat,
into the room that would witness
my birth: this space
pulsating sorrowful one
sorrowful one
as I, exiting womb,
wept before the starkness
of touch
After Denise Levertov
1) At precisely what time
Did the flood meet your doorstep?
2) What precious things
did you pack to save?
3) Can you describe to me
the sound of the rain
4) and recall how the village
appeared from your rooftop?
5) Are you still afraid?
1) In the middle of breakfast,
it had lapped at the gutter.
In a matter of spoonfuls,
thigh deep. No one thought
to watch the door.
2) There was only time
to save the dog
that we’d later discover,
could not swim.
All else, we had to leave:
Mother’s china, Father’s books,
all the photographs in paper boxes.
3) The sound of the rain
was the surest I’ve ever heard.
4) In truth, there is not much
to remember – only shingles,
iron sheets, and a growing
fraction of the sea.
I remember the sound of barking
and then, the absence of it.
I remember my brother’s face
drenched in rain.
5) Already, it is difficult to breathe
when the sky is too gray.
