After An Exhaustive Study of the Girdle of Venus*
1. The whiskey all sour went down sweet
2. on the tongue, his lips across my thighs
3. I name Eden, garden of bridge & gospel
4. & esteem for my parts—breasts, skin &
5. spit & the way he grazes, savoring groan
6. & delight, kindling the palms of his hands
7. I follow, eyes closed & the warmth of fire
8. as we coalesce, two oceans against tide.
9. I praise this love. I think heaven but propose
10. sex & revelry, ten enraptured fingers
11. across his brawny back. I bless my hands,
12. the lines across my palms & the absent Girdle—
13. my Venus birthing meadow & thorny brush
14. heeding the urgency of bramble.
*The Girdle of Venus is a line on the palm of a hand, the presence of which was, at one time, interpreted to indicate licentiousness & debauchery in women.
*
On driving all night to find the shaman who will help me &
then I breathe, draughts of air in my lungs,
a $30 white t-shirt
wet with dew, I bought from a store with a blue
awning, down the street
from where I live by the ocean, I am far from there
now; the awning gray-blue
like any sky at dawn, & now it snows & snows,
a hand in the air
conjures a different scent, sweet like juniper & cold
like rosemary, but today
clouds clamp the trees in a silver wrap with no loose ends,
here in the mountains
where sweat evaporates from my neck, I’ve come to heal,
my mind is split—
there’s the me & the child me who is screaming &
terror rides us both
into a numb frenzy, the shaman holds my head in her arms,
There now, I got you.
Sage burns. Let it out, she says, terror must have its day,
& by that she means
repressed terror, & by that she means for me to take up more
space than I ever have before
while coyotes wild against the stars, wet fur & fangs—we are all
howling together,
& now a clearing, a quiet so dark the black sky lays out the cosmos
as if I belonged
to something majestic, instead of twisted on the floor remembering
what I never wanted
to forget, the child by the door, it never should have happened,
when he stole her light.
*
I should have been a cheetah or a drum roll.
~ after Diane Seuss
I should have climbed the splintered fence and curried favor with termites.
I should have praised the bramble and cherished burnt rice.
I should have smoked a joint and slept with Scot.
And not held back.
I should have never held back, except when my father died.
If I had cried a little less, I might have remembered more of what he said.
Memory is unreliable, so I’ll make it up.
On hospice, he said my bed is always warm, but the pillows are too soft.
Or maybe he said my bed is always soft, but the pillows are too warm.
Either way, I have played it safe.
I’m not alone in that.
Have you never done something you regret?
Like shooting fish in a barrel?
That’s a metaphor.
I’ve got a barrel of regrets.
I don’t get angry enough.
I let things slide.
I’ll grant a second chance, but, no baby, not a third.
I know who I am—
a half moon swinging a starlit sky aching for a full moon. I’m galaxies and tequila shots.
Pass the salt, and I’ll tell you more.
*
Triptych in a Minor Key
i.
I remember yellow
tulips in the blue glass
vase when Jodi’s
father entered
her bedroom
his bony legs &
silver rings, the grip
on her ear
the blood
on her white carpet
as he dragged
her away
his bathrobe
hanging open
his penis
in full view
the screech of her
begging for mercy
forgive me father
her voice a chalkboard—
laced hieroglyphics
of contrition,
but no mercy
was shown that night
her skin red,
stinging, seven
birthday candles
lighting her face.
ii.
My sister’s face—
morning’s glory
at the kitchen
table, golden hues
down her back,
she asked father
for cash
to buy a new bra
& he pulled
bills out of his wallet,
so I asked for money
to buy band-aids
& mother snorted
coffee out of her nose
cuz my breasts
were tiny—
I meant to have fun
but father said
don’t ever demean
yourself again—
he never knew
about “uncle,” his hands
across my thighs
at the family picnic
or the boys in school
who rubbed my ass—
I swallowed it all
until I was starving.
iii.
I starved my young body,
disappearing
female signifiers
beneath the rice-paper
lamp, its ochre light
across the keys
as I practiced a piano sonata
in C minor
ivory under my fingers—
I stopped playing
lost in reverie, wondering
why I was born a girl
when it was clear
that boys
had the advantage,
so I begged God
to make me happy
instead of smart
but I was wrong then,
the bargain was not
smart or happy, male
or female,
the bargain
was really a prayer—
show me O father
a simple sweetness,
grant me the dignity
of respect.
***
