Tuesday, May 14, 2013

14 may 2013

Stacey Waite [from her website]

when the chalk of androgyny

there was always something about the public bathroom doors, always the chalk of androgyny sticking in my throat as i’d walk towards the women’s room with my mother. somehow i knew she wasn’t bothered by the stick figure triangle skirt that indicated the path we were to take, the ways we were to interpret our bodies, but my mother and i do not have the same body. my mother does not read the doors at all; she is automatic in her automatic body. she tugs me in by my small arms and leads me to the stall. . . .

when in a cabin in maine

no room where the fish
were sometimes cut
no claw foot tub
in which to wring
out the sorrow
from her body
we swim the length
of the lake apart
last night her hand
drafts my body
in halves
we do not keep
the records
of what has been lost
she says she would
again if not for
wanting to see underwater
and my body is underwater
the bed is underwater
her hand heavy
in the wet shell
of another summer
in maine no the fish
were not cut in this room
in this room the fish
were not cut or taken
from underwater
the room itself is
the bed is underwater
the body the cut trees
the wreckage of towns
all taken under
the lake
has no saint
after which
to take its name

when after you have exhausted the possibilities

blank the sun does not matter the jeweled edges of your body do not matter not in the spring which arrives late in the evening i will not paint the new house blue i will not paint the new house blue somewhere she is walking in fields and when i do not paint the new house blue she will not weep for her mother for what she has lost and calls to report lost the news of dying you do not understand but will not paint the new house blue no wall no roof no blue in the ceilings or gutters blue is not the color you will paint the new house though your body blue though your hands blue as what comes before a bruise she says what wood will not lie beneath the haunted bed

No comments:

Post a Comment