The landscape changes

we are not lovers, now
climbing a jagged mountain on weak joints
can one avoid twisted pain?
making an effort widens fault lines

climbing a jagged mountain on weak joints
I crack when not seen
making an effort widens fault lines
my problem is, I misunderstand unspoken words

I crack when not seen
a tongue of turbulent water makes you unreachable
my problem is, I misunderstand unspoken words
the desired channel is poetic

a tongue of turbulent water makes you unreachable
patterns repeat until one formulates change
the desired channel is poetic
it’s a matter of survival

patterns repeat, until one formulates change:
neuroplasticity enables me to breathe thin air
it’s a matter of survival
on compromised land, such independence is bittersweet

neuroplasticity enables me to breathe thin air:
one can avoid twisted pain
on compromised land, such independence is bittersweet
we are not lovers, now

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

True East

Utrecht, Summer 2017
—for J.A.

1

Wheat horizons taper to roads
as rice to mountains hugs runoff.

The zabuton is just a pillow to sit on,
nothingness just the Eucharist unplugged.

I saw the boy slinking first
and the board was on it.

May his face shine upon you
so of course they smile.

Sitting is to be practiced for hours.
Hours. No quickies like the rosé takes its time.

The lotus does not its thing
leaving broken heaps in the public pond:

Let them ride a bit higher. We’re all bigger for it.
You know. Well she was thinking it.

Let the hope of it sudsing smudge the drag-a-little-bit-lower
along the let-them-have-it-their-way-or-no-way devices—

without which who knows? Recall a grandpa voice
dipping up and about for a wee hand up eh?

Friendliness passing through smothered in caramel.
Grab the bar at the back of the bike, not me.

Marriage lasts lifetimes of untimeliness
set up, more if you think it might pan out.

2

The wind refused to duck down and waves got off in flurries. They blessed and blamed
people, you and I, forgetting to leave the magnetic key on the counter on the way out.

It brings the homeland sensitivity on. Not pretty. Mr. and Ms. barely-high-in-perpetuity
bis principal de Peter par référence.

Who kids you-who? I mean,
wipe that off this in-side trailing standstill.

Several decades ago these ponytail blonds in slippers
took to no one. No one knocks and no one answers.

The hollow in the details and every turn.
Then letting the high wall climb in dividing me

and this or that other until the outfit disarmed
and bizarre incongruity turned to routine.

It’s a ride and smile that spurs oxen to scratch
in gusts, joy above stories, nudges,

an itch untouchable with respect to our ineffable cover.
The hand dresses wounds not to wake dormers and giggling rafters.

3

I have no right to dig up baggage for anyone,
least among whom would be me.

Musically a mind to let it out on me
for not hearing it my way, that love

it or find it weekends no worse, enough
at a loss, I mean, we’re all here, fingers,

so where is only a matter of branding, tarnishing
it imprints on us through its dig.

“Hey” I hear me saying, leaving the nonplussed
restroom smile off my face

the hey flattens still, but “how’s it going” picks up
motion, kinesthetic stop tower in the rainy season.

Deserts hold not a dandelion to it,
into the weak long sun of the northern summer.

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

suburban portrait

absence feels nothing like cement
but waiting does – it holds you down

waiting bricks you in to waiting

as though it were time spent
a partnership, donated

unease is bought like lottery tickets
our spoils remain: trick of the past

dead-light, light-years away
the cold parade of dimming cores

that only reach our vision
when they finally choose to leave

stars die nothing like the suburbs do

but I’m learning how to lose
with dry-eyed devastation

two rows of fences sit
between the grass and me

perhaps it’s better labelled lawn
the man who clips the hedges waves

and I wonder if I’ve only
pretended to be kind

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Atargatis or More

Before the end of the world we went
looking for more, on the shores of our
fated apocalypse. We dug bottomless
graves in devastated sand dunes and shoveled
more wet dirt, laid down in drawn out
motion, squinting at the sun with pirated
retinas and dirty fingernails. We sent
silent messages to the people beneath
the sea who lost us on purpose, for we
had gills but used them to suffocate Atargatis,
the sea goddess. On the final night, we found
an old piano on the pier, struck an irrevocable
tune at the full moon, staring blindly at its
waxed edges until it short-sighted us,
our heads submerged in a trash mountain
of more, crystal shaped viscous water
gleaming helplessly into fractal ice.

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

O.J Chase

Together we buffer out on Willow
Rd brushing the gated residence.
There is a massive wasp on Ian’s
neck & it makes Steve remember
how he forgot to cc Ash in on the
hilarious picture of Willis colliding
with a Santa Fe on McEvoy. Also,
it reminds Steve of the O.J chase,
& anyway Ash probably wouldn’t
have cared that much, after all he
just recently suffered a divorce. an
almighty crash of holy matrimony.
A crash that not even the silver on
his chin could have prevented, &
so, Ash is under. & everywhere the
gore of power lines, & the gore of
Steve & his blessing. The gore of
his flower. & Steve starts like the
weather or telemarketing or whip-
lash. he wants to tag Tim in A pic
of them both taken at A Paul Kelly
concert, although Tim is reluctant
he considers himself to be above
social media & its mouth breathing
-Steve tags him anyway. Steve is
on Chester trying to catch up with
Ian as the wasp moves towards his
ear. Ian still hasn’t noticed the wasp
like god. The wasp has perched on
Ian’s ear like god. Steve is imminent
for the gosh. The gosh so full in his
forward facing eye. The gala of god
& goss. & Steve wants to FaceTime
Justin in on the wasp, it reminds him
of the O.J chase. & it reminds him of
the time a politician tripped over. &
Ian is descending the Lane as Steve
begins to record. All of us ordained
in his ache. on the cusp. on the cusp
of another gore & scourge. Staring at
the crash. like holiness. like porn.

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

stumps

we should make out
you whisper

perched in this nest of
chapbooks meets cricket whites
I could not agree more

we put down our
respective teacups

look, you say, I’m seeing
someone. she’s overseas
we’re in touch, we
like each other a
lot

beneath us
the futon creaks
a ship going down

plus, you add,
this summer I’m helping
a friend get pregnant

our first kiss is green
as an exit sign

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Poems on films – Le Quattro Volte

(Directed by Michelangelo Frammartino 2010)

I hear the distant clanging of bells
and there are shadows of goats on my wall.
I wondered how they would come to me
but imagined them in the hills nuzzling me
as I laid back in the grass and closed my eyes.

My heart beats slowly and I feel
the sweet milk breath of a kid on my cheek.
The dog barks on the steps.

They will lay me in the crypt
cold stone on all sides.

My tree will be cut down
for the festival – a night of dancing.
Then men will come to saw
it into logs for charcoal.
My final thought
a wisp of smoke above old tiles.

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Don’t go breaking my heart

Kiki Dee, Elton John Don’t go breaking my heart
It’s been thirty years plus since I last heard that song,
sitting in another car, another time a broiling January
eating soggy sandwiches with my dad his apprentice

We were half way through the job Kiki Dee, Elton John
Don’t go breaking my heart despite it all, the desperate battles
of a father and son, ideological to the marrow to the death
he’d sit there alongside me, in that damn car, listening
to music beyond his culture, beyond his generations, as foreign to him
as his political youth was to me far away, Austria a war
as he always said, I had no idea about Don’t go breaking my heart

Hot, soggy sandwiches Kiki Dee, he, I, twinned two sides
one coin, the currency of a job shared we worked as one
pass me the plane, the glue, hoist that end job done

I enjoyed building that kitchen with him, then with him
there, along the river each time I hear that song, I’m there again
driving home at the end of the day together in comradely silence

I’ve learnt to forgive him and sometimes I seek
his blessing still

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

blood loss

closing stone
you and me in
     apartment complex

blue dreaming
in the soft of night air
you nurse a fever
           pale water
           rushing to your head

of course there are
rules that we follow

hold raw flesh in one hand and
signal small fires to burn
around my body

i peruse
     the dense grass
     that keeps me hidden from the others

blood stain
thickens in the carpet

when i am not blind i notice
that your body lies
across the ground
          your legs twisted into
shape of crossbow
     hallway          bends with your echo

i meet your mother in the morning
if you stare long enough
her skin will shade itself
                  into dark wine

the bedroom window is moonless
hear your whispers but i get you to
verify your identity through each
cup of tea smashed across the floor

you are swollen in my arms
to keep you there
i think of the colours
that wake inside of you

different winds
                     blowing
Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

From Northbourne Ave

How vulnerable the body's archive

                        reproduction and memory 


a banner juts out a banner juts out pure vector two or three mediocre feelings inscrutable protesters and their certainty and their tough white crosses what life is like scabrous raked-over pine witches hats in bleached or shaded settings
place attaching to symptoms–––is this bias? is
is movement like air it's how we live * clouds floating on windscreens one-liners I'm interested in that
no airflow apology no airflow Would you try again? Or give up? no airflow Ask for help? Give and give? no airflow * altered foliage living memory, impression realm seems disinterested across but never to: tentatively perceived housing aptitude––asset the light eagling decades END palms effort it happened, you were there landslip, roaming, a detour * the person of the place / everyone we knew / abetting / from here / flat country

invigilation of the public bitumen inland, scrubby, day day day turn back reports of an assailant turn backs selection criteria fate the wrong way recycling that memory distractible 2000s crime air * double dream spring spring warming bump––bloom as if you were born an angel watcher reader this belief what life is like temporary something new is getting started; bureaucratic (unpeopled) and so clean
Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Aspete/Wait

(after Shirley Hazzard)


In the vicoli
the great heft
of Neapolitan washing
flaps above me,
driven by winds
that might have ancient names
or simply be cattivi,
sucked out and back
as if the streets themselves
are breathing.
Somewhere in the
closed chapel of Sansevero
lies the veiled Christ
in his wrappings
miraculously light
as this bleached and hoisted lot,
the afterbirth of his crown of thorns
discarded by his side.
A short walk on
and the markets are awash
with cloth
from god knows where.
Later in a darkened shop
—the Lavanderia
a patient expat helps me explain
exactly what I need in a bottle
Aspete, signora, this one, right?
Aspete enunciated in the local
becomes asssh—pet,
a meaning so close, too close
for what it is
that really hangs above this town.
On purchase, I make a poor answer.
What did I wait for here
but the fine white
of not knowing
falling all over me.

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Bathroom Abstraction

1.
You once wrote the following in an essay in a book: ‘His poetry, ambivalent as a bathroom, acknowledges both the body’s pleasures and its incompetencies’. In response, a critic wrote that he only kind of knew what you meant.

You were talking about the poetry of John Forbes, who died of a heart attack in 1998. In his poem, ‘Ode to Tropical Skiing’, taking a bath is described as ‘a total fucking gas’.

2.
You think about the bathrooms you have encountered since writing that essay almost two decades ago. In particular, the bathrooms of hospitals. Helping your wife, almost unable to stand, wash herself. Outside a nurse asking if she can help, while the baby, helpless in a plastic cot, cries from hunger.

You think about the bathroom you made your way to after your bypass operation. Crossing your hands over your chest and applying pressure, like the nursing staff told you.

3.
Windowless bathrooms are the caves of modernity. In a hotel in Patagonia—a town where the wire fences were covered with scraps of rubbish, frantic in the wind—you find yourself in a room with a windowless bathroom.

All that space outside, ambiguously beautiful, and still nowhere to let the light in. On the second day, you change rooms.

4.
Every day, at home, you are in and out of the bathroom, taking in its fine abstractions while—utterly human—you shit, and wash, and brush your teeth.

You revel in the gaseous miracle of hot showers. The water, the fatty acids, the skin and hair—it all runs away. The bathroom window frames the outside world, which is simplified by steam and distance.

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Lifting Machine

Lifted from his hospital bed for showering,
my husband swings at a perilous height.
Put me down! he cries like
some early movie heroine.

He has the King Kong of brain tumours:
Inoperable, Grade four
and is not the hero
anymore.

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Asyndeta

“On the downside, we have so many unnecessary deaths…”
President M. Buhari, 25/12/2018.

I

you could mount the monster, Eiffel-style
wrestle it to the asphalt
crack your cranium!
you know no restraint being
the bairn of your father, the moon of her
dark eyes;
fractured, you are flown into an elfdom
where elves of enchanted songs with
magicked fingers, would for the right price,
patch up puerile puissance;
in the meantime
they continue to river unremarked
the lethal blacktops veining this land
much menaced, the arterial spurts of votaries
commoners haplessly propitiating the
implacable gods of the roads we ply daily.

II

you shall be sheltered
having climbed into their hallowed rank
on bloodied steeples
mindless, of course, of the treacly cherry puddles
you would do a tap dance, really a victory dance
slipping, you would snap your neck!
why should you regret?!
what does it matter when your vulturine
friends, oligarchs in the chamber red, only
have to dig in the popular till
off you go then on medical charter
meanwhile
in the pens in your backyard
mothers expire in childbirth
babies post partum…

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

perth

in the space between light and the sea
glitters a thick emptiness,
the infection of clouds and blood.
leonard cohen died yesterday,
and my mother’s boyfriend,
a gentle alcoholic, fell asleep in his car
outside our house. i think he has parkinson’s,
she said, lifting the blinds
like she was waiting for a prom date,
a corsage, untailored suit. because
of all the shaking
. he told me he wanted
to marry her and shattered his beer on our floor.
for weeks we found stray glass glinting on the rug,
and woke with his words cut into our feet.

it makes me think of the music teacher
i was in love with at thirteen, the one
who slid his hand up my skirt. five years later
and middle c sounds like panic;
hot edge of acoustic pedals, the distant swell
of saint-saens and hangnails.

look at the moon, lonelier than it will ever be
again. a dirty opal over the city, sky impaled
upon rooftops. dozens of us gazing upwards,
like a shoal of whitefish over bleached coral,
faces scoured in gold glass and silence.
we expect everything and find only echoes.

a drunk, soft head weighted
against the steering wheel,
mr goosen offering me a chocolate bar
for being such a good student. there is a sense
of geometry; there is a ratio to all this violence.
it waxes and wanes, follows us through tide,
through love, through music.

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Weather Forecast

Each day since she has been gone, 
there’s been an installation outside Heather’s place. 
Today it is two plants. 
The Happy Plant is wilting, but the succulent is happy. 
Would it be weird if I watered it? 
I never even spoke to her 
                                                                         and it’s meant to rain tomorrow.

At Campos I chase the sun. Through the window I see Ian and Helen, the King and Queen of the Community Garden.
They are with their dog, a Pomeranian I think. Dressed in a Carlisle sweater this morning. The dog that is, and Helen is holding it under her arm like a handbag.
It’s getting colder now. That time of year when the heat of the day huddles in the middle away from the edges, and when Helen goes to put the dog down, her feet shrink from the cold. The dog’s that is, not Helen’s.
I am watching them on the window. Helen wanders on with the lead and her Pomeranian stops. Helen keeps walking about to lose her slack.
Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Soup

i.
I don’t remember the way you did it –
the cleaver pressed sharp against the meat,
a memory: fingernails sunk into flesh.
Dinnertime is a theatre of trauma,
a curtain revealing smells: garlic, ginger, fish sauce,
the lascivious tongue of oil touching a pan
as the radio spits out a language
I keep tucked in my school skirt
& I don’t remember the way you did it,
I only remember how each spoonful
tasted like a bruise.


ii.
You pick apart the blue on my collarbone
& do not speak. I am only just realising
that shame has a shape—a blurry-edged,
clingy foetus you cradle, so tenderly,
your thumbs pressed against my womb
as if to say that violence is in our genes
& still, you do not speak—
(I read somewhere that
Chinese women make their anger
into something they can drink.)
A soup stirred for three weeks
drenches the house in its dull,
star-anise smell for decades,
a cheap spice, $2 a bag & you,
my dear, dumb, silent mother
coax my mouth open,
tell me a story
feed me a tonic
to burn my insides
clean.


iii.
Mama, when I write poems
I am always typing words in hiding
with the crack of that radio still nestled
in between my collarbones
& thinking about how pretty English is,
how this half-cocked verse tastes like
a recipe missing an ingredient
you cannot get from around here,
but Mama—
I think I get it now. I think I get it.
That yellow is not a synonym for blonde
& my father shuts the door
to cry without anyone seeing
& if you were still here
I would ask you
how you made that soup for me
your fingers strong
against the barrel of my chest,
spoon after spoon
as your tears dripped down
into my forgetting mouth

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

chamber musings

(i) 43 days

all on foot, drug ripe and addled,
Tramadols and Endones puppeting mice

in the peripherals, trekking lanes and
limestone, withered grapes atop walls, to the West

sky smeared peach, on the demolition site
pink ribbons around the trunks of two tuarts –

heritage listed? termites? brake lights and
brittling couch grass, the bruising of a

week closed, sutures of hours – clockwise
is off. to the wharves, slap of ropes

and tide, ‘Spliethoft’, Dutch, engorging.
it’s a Vaselined moon tonight, March brooding



(ii) venn intersects

in this convalescence – good word that with it’s
gauze-like length and syllabic wrap – been

practicing the lost art of waiting, bus and
train stations, doctors’ rooms, never enough

shade or new ‘New Ideas’, been watching,
the wizened and the upright, figs ripening,

footpaths that flow like prose then trip like
misspellings, been rubbing paperbark trees,

listening in on frogs, been mulling over the
difference between learned and remembered,

the venn intersects, making a mantra
of ‘clockwise is off’ while pondering the

origin of knowns, the mind that did
the choosing, hands that shape our days



(iii) rope armies

taken my lungs to ocean, remembering
that on taps, clockwise is off, though

that is my truth, my tomorrow, not that
of the clock hands and been thinking

‘bout tides and un-neaping, and let’s call it
global swarming though we’ll never get there

of course, when, for every ant there’s
a human – they know that, ‘cos for us

‘mining’ means ‘mine’ and we’re more blind
than they are and while we’re making

books for our faces they’re forming rope
armies to bind and save the world

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Storying

– for two tigers and a lion instead of punctuation marks

P R O L O G U E

a half-light noon i wake up
inside nowhere. a campfire deep
within my breastbone and i know
i am human, hunting
for meanings as bandages,

D R A F T

desire,

lack(?)

redu /a/

cti sl/ant/

on /tru/

microscopedbodymicroscopedbodymicroscopedbody

T H E S T O R Y

fatigued winter, the sky sculpted in ashes. Comma and Colon travelled
through circles, making sense of words, wrestling inside these pages. today,
the snow seemed enough. distances between the iris lights and the roads.
the typed sky, now became dawn-blue with its own falling.

? r e d r o

this city always failed them these exhausted words, violent as a heart.
they were walking home and right there Comma’s house a strangled sentence,
broken in. the day exited. and the house, crumpled by Full Stop, trying
to conclude a life, a paragraph’s wound that veined through the paper.
under the night’s cold skin, this ink kept blueing their existence.

? h c i h w

there was much of a pause, then a ‘get out!’ then the second sweated,
a swoosh, a gone. ‘why didn’t you try to talk to him?” always,
colon with too much to hold. colon like a thirst that wouldn’t finish,

s r e t t u t a h t

‘silence? his explanation?’

y l l u f s h i t h c t a c

‘i would rather let go, it’s ugly god. swear i still feel it, near.’

y l g u

so i let go i guess, of my animal. again to continue or to go? is it good?
maybe trapped in this verse – the full stop, waiting for a home a stillness.
but dear readers, this writer has deleted that desire an erasure
of a heartbeat. to go yes. just to go. the house’s roof suddenly sentenceless,

a brutal sky.

 

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

National Treasures Coming Home

My boss, the head nurse, says she has a collection of Ming Dynasty crockery,
Qing dynasty snuff bottles and a
Shang 代 bronze tripod vase
always filled with fresh pomegranates
looted by her ancestors or
bought at Sotherby’s
for all the tea in China.
“I’m the poor cousin, the others got more
Come for dinner and you’ll see them all.”

I disliked her then, now I dislike her now
But it is Queen Victoria I should 更讨厌
throw rotten eggs
or spray Four bandits on the pedestal upon which
she sits in the park at the end of Great George Street.
‘Looty’ was her Pekinese,
say it in Cantonese ‘北京狗!’

It is my boss, not Victoria, who wants me to eat beef stroganoff and polenta
off my ancestor’s plates.
sniff the potpourri she’s placed
in rhinoceros shell lined bottles
translate the inked poems
about ancient fish
and explain why the toad has red eyes
flared nose and only three legs

For dessert she will make a Pavlova in her new Bosch oven
with fresh cherries, bruised seconds from local farms.

I usually pay to admire stolen goods, encased in glass cabinets,
national treasures and ancient clays I cannot afford to buy.
I’ve seen the Egyptian treasures, excavated
by the men who live in Downtown Abbey
“Your Chinese mouth would not touch these Chinese treasures
had we not salvaged history back to Portsmouth.
Look at what happened to the Temple of Ballashamin
the Giant Buddhas of Bamiyan!”

We have an understanding she and I.
I order pens, paper, ink cartridges and pantry supplies, soaps,
malted milk and chocolate biscuits
for children who attend our geriatric clinic.
I add two extra boxes of tampons
“For the patients of course”
I nod when she says, “People should pay for their health care.”
because she gives me hour long-lunch breaks
and calls me “good boy.”
So I say “will come to dinner.”

I will see if Russian gravy taste better on centuries old porcelain plates
patterned by cobalt and manganese
and ingest the same trace elements as
imperial court nobles who ate 菜 off the
crockery when they were fresh out of the kiln.

But my cousin says that our people were the peasants who woke up early to
harvest grains of rice with our hands,
and we were foreigners to the forbidden city.
I ask him what I should wear to a meal with the descendants
drug dealers who poisoned a nation with opioids
rendered it sick
too yellow and diseased
to walk in leafy green meadows
when they could not cure their addiction to yum cha.

He says, “I will lend you my vest, cut from the uniform of a Song dynasty eunuch.
It does not fit me but it will indeed fit you.”

Perhaps
Perhaps
Perhaps.


代 – ‘dai’ – era
更讨厌 – ‘geng tao yen’ – more hate
菜– ‘cai’ – food dishes
*北京狗– ‘Bei Jing Gao’ – Pekinese Dog but Cantonese pronunciation is ‘bah-ging gow’

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

something very old

Inner monologues are set forth in North America from deserts to mountaintops
in cutting room fashion,
measures between two and three feet in length,
runs hot and cold,
active only at night,
they feed principally on the difference between a pond and a lake
a haircut and a beheading

Digs shallow burrows,
blowing my nose and lying in bed with my shoes on,
settling into their new apartments in combination with fleas
larger than mice, grabs her shoulders and plants a kiss on her cheek,
their faces and buttocks marked with vivid purples and reds,
precisely because we are human

Having no technical meanings,
improvising his own plan, seemingly on a daily basis,
something very old
of which we have not freed and may never free ourselves
that decimated populations in 29 minutes
and the NBC broadcast it in full,
unedited,
including its tail

Flashing back to the leaf mould of the forest floors
with scant regard for chronology
between moles and shrews
yet it also covered terrain as if we’re old friends and it occurs to me that maybe

we are.

(Collage poem, with text from articles in the November 23, 2017 issue of the New York Review of Books,
and from The Living World of Animals, Readers Digest Association, 1970)

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Pteropus

far from the beach and its many mouths
the body of a dead bat
skin strung in a cartography of veins

even at dusk flies fuzz its eyes
terrier teeth crescent claws
fur pelt pulled winter close

the evening draws Rothko sheets
over roadkill mannequins
dripping tar and meat stink

the big lake behind
moves its mercury molasses
and moonlight unzips the water

the roost loosens their straitjackets
fox-faced banshee notes
a loping caterwaul in freefall

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Un-titled

my culture is a blizzard, low
visibility everything,
everywhere

it is thick sheets of ice to slip on
hard enough to break
bone

cold snow to cause loss
of feeling in far digits and many
places

fun to make angels and skate!

my culture is a swift blanket
over stone and foliage
a princely cape lain over soft ground

for safe passage
of young ladies
in old stories

my culture is a long, hot second.
ungiving ungenerous unstudied
by anthropologists

my culture does well
at recreation most of the time it takes
first prize

my culture is the tallest wall
it holds everything in
it doesn’t sound very good
does it

it doesn’t feel very good

it doesn’t feel very much
like anything

Posted in 92: NO THEME VIII | Tagged

Dinner Companion

To begin our conversation, I turn toward Sue
and refer to the Oxford University dining practice
of first talking to the person on one side, then
after a given time, the one on the other side.

Sue responds with the most hackneyed question,
how did you meet your husband, which throws
me off a bit, but we move on to Simon Winchester’s
writing, especially Atlantic but also The Perfectionist
about precision instruments which I say I’m
reading now.

The science reference is an opening for her
to explain her training: undergrad science
then a Masters in what I pretend I recognize,
some study of aquatic mammalian life.

She knows I’ve done a doctorate so asks
me the title which I articulate a version of:
Age and Natural Order in Ultimate Attainment
in Second Language Acquisition.

That leads into a discussion of immigration
then back to her next area of study: Economics,
which is why she is at this dinner and qualified
to turn to her right to join the all-male mutual funds
conversation group that I have heard snatches of
while we’ve been talking.

This leaves me somewhat desolate as a wife,
rapidly spooning my almond ice cream
into my mouth until my husband, on my other side,
who is also here due to his economics knowledge,
includes me in his conversation with a nod
of his head in my direction.

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