Anne Graue
ForgottenHer body felt unnatural
under a forest canopy in Western Kenya. Dewy grass slapped her ankles wet and shiny; her leather sandals liquefied sliding her feet forward as she walked behind the two men-- sie Deutsch sprechen-- ignoring her. They stopped amid the tallest trees in Kakamega, the language musical to her; it mesmerized her so that she hardly noticed the crawling on her feet, her toes; they laughed-- sie mich vergessen haben-- began to walk toward the cabin. She looked down, stared at safari ant pincers, oblique exoskeletons, ant-creatures traveling roundabout her ankles, her legs bare beneath her skirt. Sensing her panic, they began to feast on her skin--wet, slippery, and right in their path. The Armadillos ☊
She didn't see it coming, shouted
something unutterable with the shots, then four of the five were dead, left bleeding at the corner of her house. "They're pests," the deputy said, "and they're too far north--these critters come up from Texas and will ruin the foundation of your house, ma'am." She thought he might have brought a trap like she remembered he did for raccoons, skunks, and groundhogs; Armadillo blood splashed unexpected upon the verdant grass. Her daughter took pictures once she'd called the sheriff; these were strange, primordial creatures she'd only seen on TV. They were sinister too, in armor, prehistoric in their gunmetal scales and taupe leather for skin. They were digging for grubs next to the holly bush between the hydrangeas and jonquils, oblivious to the chrome on the car, the man pulling up in the drive, cutting the engine, standing on the porch, drinking iced tea, talking, laughing. Roaming the Tasman Sea
The waters are changing, warming,
the jellies are abundant they keep cropping up like parachutes abandoned on the Tasmanian shore. Lion's Mane are a dominant class with unnamed species, each different, new yet so old; wandering for centuries until the water changed, became just right. Now we know about them and will watch, warn, and wait for their breeding times, erect signs for swimmers and surfers, avoid the far-reaching tentacles that swirl like mops through the blue; waving in copepods and roe, zooplankton and larvae; evading capture. Fierce anemones wait to grab, suck the jellies down into their reef bellies under tacky fronds that clutch, seize, consume, and devour, nematocysts and all. Killing Teenage Girls and Pit Bulls
I see that you did this:
you strapped bombs to her chest and stole her children; you removed her teeth so she could not resist; and now, you sit on a mountain high in the wind that blows from behind you, stings your face with strands of your hair; your head moves, you watch trees sway, hear them groan, as if you made it happen, as if you were the wind. |
This House
Walking home from school
I smeared sparkling eye shadow onto my palms, carried a white rat in a cage, sighed deeply and long before going in. Hardwood floors glistened like prairies in sunlight that streamed through the living room windows. Kitchen walls beckoned and bestowed chocolate macaroons from an oven just warm enough. Stairs descended twice, landing once at the front door, journeyed down to the cool of a room we'd never seen before; a place to play ping pong and watch TV, where slumber parties were cacophonous then quiet at 3 in the morning. This house wrapped me in cream colored walls, watched me write in my first journal, peered over my shoulder into Tom Sawyer and Little Women; The Outsiders and Forever; Jaws and Carrie. This house overheard plans for riding my purple Huffy more than a mile to the discount store that sold forty-fives, watched me unwrap Neil Diamond's "Cherry Cherry," that rode home with me, inside my shirt, next to my skin; this freedom felt like breathing air for the first time, swimming the length of the pool without stopping, wishing the pool were a lake or an ocean, like walking invisible or flying just under the clatter. This house indulged my lime green bean bag and sheets that splashed my room with calm; then it smirked at my crush on Ronnie Martin and exulted with me when my science project won. Barbie, Ken, and Talking PJ went out on dates in this house for two years, then left; posters of Donny and David beamed at me, conceding to the Sweet and Elton John--sounds from the radio next to my bed. Nixon resigned in that house one night while I mowed the lawn, smelled the grass, and ate mulberries until purple juice streaked my arms to the elbows, dripped onto my legs, onto the branch, sturdy and coarse under me. I played softball in the backyard, built tents out of quilts with the sister who knew me; the one I locked out of the house one afternoon; the one I scared standing quiet behind the door, the one who fought with me and always made up. This house watched us play kick the can, hide and seek, truth or dare, protected us from a drug bust one early morning, young people lying on the lawn--moving, moaning--police walking in and out with handcuffed neighbors and filled bags (like a scene from Go Ask Alice); it played host to teenage girls in bell-bottoms and halter tops who smoked and skipped school, to my brother who hitchhiked from California and called with his last dime, found only me at the other end, home from school with plans to finish my homework and read read read read read. Reading Sylvia Plath
If you are squeamish, avert your eyes.
If you cannot fathom why the sea should be sluttish or rutted, set out for the shore. If you believe that poetry should not expose the grievous offenses of the world then you are in a forest without a path, even one well travelled, or in a gown of gossamer, and you are lost, bereft of feeling, sans love. |