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| Mary Ruefle [kcrw] |
from Mary Ruefle's Trances of the Blast:
Spikenard
Sentence, you always
spoiled my evening.
This is the journal
of my journal.
I used to sniff dill
when things went poorly,
then something snapped inside me.
I plunged my hand in —
after watercress, I guess.
A stream in the middle of me
is not a hospital,
but it takes care of things:
some are dammed,
some let go.
But only after all.
After I had my crying,
I had to indent again.
The scene of spikenard
is nice. It smells of
weird responsibility.
It makes me roll
my stockings down.
I wash my feet with it.
Like pale writing
they lie there on the floor.
I spend more time with my journal
than I spend with myself.
The end.
Q & A
We notice you use the word lonely
in many of your poems, why is that?
Because Siegfried's difficult way to
Brunhild passes over eighty-nine pages
of rubble, of sticks, of stones, of
crushed glass, of minor boards, of
stinking creosote, of smashed skulls
and dead birds, of lost gloves, of
shards and turds and carpet remnants,
the whole way is paved with bottle caps
and flattened coins and the occasional
pair of broken spectacles, with tar
and rust and gravel and sand and brambles
and wire and old crumbly bricks and chunks
of mortar, with empty shotgun shells and
chewed-up pens and barfed-up bits of dinner
and cigar butts and snack wrappers and
plastic bottles tossed from cars, with rhino
whiskers and the inevitable single shoe without
laces, not to mention thousands of hooves
with the fur still on them and the animal bones
that have been eroding here for years
though the path more or less runs straight
and many of these things glint in the morning
sun, weirdly, why do you ask?
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