Did It Ever Occur to You That Maybe You’re Falling in Love?
We buried the problem.
We planted a tree over the problem.
We regretted our actions toward the problem.
We declined to comment on the problem.
We carved a memorial to the problem, dedicated it. Forgot our handkerchief.
We removed all “unnatural” ingredients, handcrafted a locally-grown tincture for the problem. But nobody bought it.
We freshly-laundered, bleached, deodorized the problem.
We built a wall around the problem, tagged it with pictures of children, birds in trees.
We renamed the problem, and denounced those who used the old name.
We wrote a law for the problem, but it died in committee.
We drove the problem out with loud noises from homemade
instruments.
We marched, leafleted, sang hymns, linked arms with the problem, got dragged to jail, got spat on by the problem and let out.
We elected an official who Finally Gets the problem.
We raised an army to corral and question the problem. They went door to door but could never ID.
We made www.problem.com so You Can Find Out About the
problem, and www.problem.org so You Can Help.
We created 1-800-Problem, so you could Report On the problem, and 1-900-Problem so you could Be the Only Daddy That Really Turns That problem On.
We drove the wheels offa that problem.
We rocked the shit out of that problem.
We amplified the problem, turned it on up, and blew it out.
We drank to forget the problem.
We inhaled the problem, exhaled the problem, crushed its ember under our shoe.
We put a title on the problem, took out all the articles, conjunctions, and verbs. Called it “Exprmntl Prblm.”
We shot the problem, and put it out of its misery.
We swallowed daily pills for the problem, followed a problem fast, drank problem tea.
We read daily problem horoscopes. Had our problem palms read by a seer.
We prayed.
Burned problem incense.
Formed a problem task force. Got a problem degree. Got on the problem tenure track. Got a problem retirement plan.
We gutted and renovated the problem. We joined the Neighborhood Problem Development Corp.
We listened and communicated with the problem, only to find out that it had gone for the day.
We mutually empowered the problem.
We kissed and stroked the problem, we fucked the problem all night. Woke up to an empty bed.
We watched carefully for the problem, but our flashlight died.
We had dreams of the problem. In which we could no longer
recognize ourselves.
We reformed. We transformed. Turned over a new leaf. Turned a corner, found ourselves near a scent that somehow reminded us of the problem,
In ways we could never
Put into words. That
Little I-can’t-explain-it
That makes it hard to think. That
Rings like a siren inside.
(-Ailish Hopper)
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“A new obsession. How to get out”
A new obsession. How to get out
of cold, metallic waters alive.
Every night for a week I dream
of my car ending up in a body
of water. If I’m not driving, someone
else is. Bob, the neighbor.
My new paranoia.
I Google how to escape a car
filling with water. I watch videos
on YouTube. I memorize the steps
of what to do if this happens. First,
you take your seat belt off. Late at night,
I read pages and pages on the internet.
What if the car lands
in the water flipped over?
Remember to stay calm.
If you panic, you will die.
News story about a woman who drives
her minivan into the ocean on purpose.
Horrified beachgoers run toward the water.
The two kids are strapped in the back seat.
One of the kids is screaming “No, mommy” —
What about the sunroof?
What if you land in the water
and your car has a sunroof?
My new car has a sunroof.
You have to let the car fill with water
so that pressure is equalized on both sides.
This is elementary physics.
If you don’t do this, it’s
impossible to open the doors.
This is the scary part.
You have to hold your breath.
None of the YouTube videos say anything
about what to do if you have
kids strapped in car seats in the car.
I look up what the dreams mean.
Water in dreams signifies turbulent emotions.
If you are in your car and there
is a flash flood, you should get out immediately.
Even six inches of water can sweep your car away.
Sweep it to where?
Maybe the forest?
I get nervous driving by the Gulf of Mexico.
My friend Dyan got into an accident
there and she said that if the car had
flipped on the other side of the road,
her whole family would
have ended up in the water.
I don’t like water.
I don’t want to touch it.
It scares me.
I know all life was born of water.
Today the government proposed
to sell off all public lands.
That before anything existed
there were rocks and then water.
I know that water is beautiful and mysterious.
But why does it sweep people away?
I want to push down the rising seas.
I look at a map of cities that will be underwater by 2100, 2200 —
Jacksonville, New Orleans, Amsterdam.
I want to push them down with my bare hands.
(-Sandra Simonds)
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Painted Turtle
Summer road the ring around the lake, we drove mostly in silence.
Why aren’t I your wife?
You swerved around a turtle sunning itself.
I wanted to go back. To hold the hot disc of it and place it in the grass.
We were late for dinner.
One twentieth of a mile an hour, I said. Claws in tar. You turned the car around.
Traffic from the direction of the turtle, and you saw before I did, the fifty bones of the carapace,
crushed roman dome, the surprise of red blood.
I couldn’t help crying, couldn’t keep anything from harm.
I’m sorry, you said, and let it hurt.
The relief, always, of you in the seat beside me, you’ll never know.
Driving that road next winter, you remembered that place in the road. Your turtle.
During hibernation, a turtle’s heart beats once for every ten minutes.
It cannot voluntarily open its eyes.
(-Gretchen Marquette)
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Growing a Bear
Growing a bear — a midnight occupation,
the need for which you perhaps first realized
when you saw the wrong kind of shadow
under your chin — a convex when you expected
concave, so now it’s clear
you’re getting older. Your wife was in the shower
and you wanted to step inside
and soap her up like you did in college when she said
“I’ll shower with you, but I’m leaving
my underwear on,” and you enjoyed her
in every way you could enjoy a person with soap.
You didn’t join your wife in the shower.
She’s gotten funny about letting you see her
shave her legs or wash herself anywhere.
You think she read it somewhere —
that letting your husband see you pluck anything,
trim anything, apply medicine to anything,
will make him feel like he’s furniture.
It’s exactly on cold nights like these that the basement
is not as forbidding as it should be, despite the fact
that you have to put gloves on
in what is part of your own home.
Downstairs, a large bathtub, kept, for some reason,
after remodeling. It is there that your bear will be grown,
by you, though you have no idea how. Probably wishing
is most of it; fertilizer, chunks of raw stew meat,
handfuls of blackberries, two metal rakes, and a thick rug
make up the rest. Then water.
You get an e-mail from a friend late at night
saying he can’t sleep. You write back
“I hope you feel sleepy soon” and think how childish
the word “sleepy” is. And you’re a man,
older than most of the people you see on television.
You haven’t even considered how your wife will feel
when you have finished growing your bear. You could
write a letter to her tonight, explaining how your life
was just so lacking in bear:
“Janet, it’s nothing you’ve done —
clearly you have no possible way of supplying me with a bear
or any of the activities I might be able to enjoy
after acquiring the bear.”
It might just be best
to keep the two worlds separate.
Janet clearly prefers things to be comfortable
and unchallenging. Janet soaps herself up. Janet puts herself
to bed, and you just happen to be next to her.
You go on your weekly bike ride with Mark and tell him
that you’ve been growing a bear. An eighteen-wheeler
flies by and he doesn’t seem to hear you —
plus he’s focused on the hill.
You think about how not all friends know
what each other sounds like when struggling and
breathing heavy. Past the age of college athletics,
most friends don’t even know what each others’ bodies
look like, flushed, tired, showering, cold.
(-Hannah Gamble)
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Leisure, Hannah, Does Not Agree with You (2)
—After Catullus
My house disgusted me, so I slept in a tent.
My tent disgusted me, so I slept in the grass. The grass disgusted me,
so I slept in my body, which I strung like a hammock from two ropes.
My body disgusted me, so I carved myself out of it.
My use of knives disgusted me because it was an act of violence.
My weakness disgusted me because “Hannah” means “hammer.”
The meaning of my name disgusted me because I’d rather be known
as beautiful. My vanity disgusted me because I am a scholar.
My scholarship disgusted me because knowledge is empty.
My emptiness disgusted me because I wanted to be whole.
My wholeness would have disgusted me because to be whole
is to be smug. Still, I tried to understand wholeness
as the inclusiveness of all activities: I walked out into the yard,
trying to vomit and drink milk simultaneously. I tried to sleep
while smoking a cigar. I have enough regrets to crack all the plumbing.
I’m whole only in that I’ve built my person from every thought I’ve ever loved.
(-Hannah Gamble)
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The God Who Loves You
It must be troubling for the god who loves you
To ponder how much happier you’d be today
Had you been able to glimpse your many futures.
It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings
Driving home from the office, content with your week—
Three fine houses sold to deserving families—
Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened
Had you gone to your second choice for college,
Knowing the roommate you’d have been allotted
Whose ardent opinions on painting and music
Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion.
A life thirty points above the life you’re living
On any scale of satisfaction. And every point
A thorn in the side of the god who loves you.
You don’t want that, a large-souled man like you
Who tries to withhold from your wife the day’s disappointments
So she can save her empathy for the children.
And would you want this god to compare your wife
With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus?
It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation
You’d have enjoyed over there higher in insight
Than the conversation you’re used to.
And think how this loving god would feel
Knowing that the man next in line for your wife
Would have pleased her more than you ever will
Even on your best days, when you really try.
Can you sleep at night believing a god like that
Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives
You’re spared by ignorance? The difference between what is
And what could have been will remain alive for him
Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill
Running out in the snow for the morning paper,
Losing eleven years that the god who loves you
Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene
Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him
No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend
No closer than the actual friend you made at college,
The one you haven’t written in months. Sit down tonight
And write him about the life you can talk about
With a claim to authority, the life you’ve witnessed,
Which for all you know is the life you’ve chosen.
(-Carl Dennis)
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Diminuendo
Everything was clear, and nothing much
the better for it.
They agreed it was a matter of caring,
and each felt the dull courage that comes from
caring less.
They weren't going to bring up Avalon,
that shore town where they first met,
or doing ninety
in the country with the top down:
these were among the unreachables; emblems
of how they felt
once, about each other and a few
lambent afternoons. They leaned back
in their chairs
at the café, neither fully present
nor gone, his mind cut loose
from his heart
like a dinghy in cold, still water.
And she felt the weight of caring
had been lifted
from her. She felt she would soon know
a freedom some of her friends knew,
unmoored,
a hundred options in the bittersweet dark.
It was late August. Neither blamed anything
on how the soul idles
in that relentless hum of days.
Everything's true, they agreed, smiling;
if something didn't
happen, it certainly would in time.
A black fly landed in her hair, and he
swept it away.
A sudden breeze uplifted their napkins,
but that was all there was of action
It was time to go;
one of them, soon, would say so.
(-Stephen Dunn)
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Paradise
How attractive trouble feels
in paradise. The place next door
where pain is an option
begins to whisper.
You want the leopard to replace
the swan, the great horned owl
to nudge a songbird out of a tree.
The case for suffering is always
overrated by those whose health
is good, whose houses are calm.
But today you understand
why some people pierce
more than their ears,
why the leisure class has a history
of eating itself from the inside.
And, now, a wish to stir
the stilled air with a serrated knife,
dip into the blackberry jam,
then lick that knife publicly clean,
hoping someone will notice and care.
From the beginning, hasn't it
been the same: the need to woo
a stranger so you'll not be mutinous
alone, to lie down knowingly
among the nettles and the thorns?
(-Stephen Dunn)
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MY LIFE WAS THE SIZE OF MY LIFE
My life was the size of my life.
Its rooms were room-sized,
its soul was the size of a soul.
In its background, mitochondria hummed,
above it sun, clouds, snow,
the transit of stars and planets.
It rode elevators, bullet trains,
various airplanes, a donkey.
It wore socks, shirts, its own ears and nose.
It ate, it slept, it opened
and closed its hands, its windows.
Others, I know, had lives larger.
Others, I know, had lives shorter.
The depth of lives, too, is different.
There were times my life and I made jokes together.
There were times we made bread.
Once, I grew moody and distant.
I told my life I would like some time,
I would like to try seeing others.
In a week, my empty suitcase and I returned.
I was hungry, then, and my life,
my life, too, was hungry, we could not keep
our hands off our clothes on our tongues from
(-Jane Hirshfield)
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ON FRIENDSHIP
If a friend calls out to you late at night from beneath your window
Never send him on his way. And if you’ve sent him away and still
Insist on rigid rules, regain your composure after a moment
And run to the window and shout his name: “Come, Merhav!
Come back! I’ve got some corn cooking! Come eat something.”
And he’ll placidly retrace his steps and gladly accept
The key you toss down from your window,
Will come upstairs to the first floor and will be impressed
By the large pictures on the walls.
He’ll sit and wait for you to slip into a clean shirt and you’ll put on
The movie in the kid’s room and your baby daughter
Will rush to the kitchen and come back with a red pepper for him.
He’ll decline the warm corn and say he’s already had dinner.
In the meantime your husband will chat with him about Tai Chi
And pour him a glass of cold sweet pineapple juice.
You’ll return to the living room
And go out to the balcony and light a cigarette and sip
A cold beer. You don’t yet realize
That this is a sublime moment in your life.
One of the most sublime you’ll ever know.
(-Hagit Grossman)
(Translated, from the Hebrew, by Benjamin Balint.)
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DAMAGED VILLANELLE
To get rid of the sound of his voice
you take off your ears
but then they grow back.
You try a sharper blade,
two hours hunched over the whetstone,
and, rid of the sound of his voice,
for a day you hear
nothing
until they grow back.
You are not happy.
In birdsong you just hear I’m hungry or Fuck me,
everything threaded with the sound of his voice
you core out your eardrums to escape
and you do for a while
until they grow back.
Little flesh tom-toms announcing the night-march
from within the ridged whorls of your ears
which to get rid of the sound of his voice
you burn off this time
with a blowtorch.
They grow back
sooner than your hair does.
Smoother, this time, too,
and in skids the sound of his voice.
We should note now, though,
that it matters less what he said
than when (and where and how and why).
That whatever it was
was always at night
and though morning would reliably come
and snap night off
like a light or a finger extended
night would always grow back.
Different, more attentive maybe,
or gentle and whiny with rain,
but there, in the doorjamb, back.
(-Conor Bracken)
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THE PARTY TO WHICH YOU ARE NOT INVITED
You walk in, your clothes dark
and strangely appropriate, an arrogance
about you as if you had a ramrod
for a spine. You feel posture-perfect.
When you speak, women move away.
You smile, and men see tombstones.
They think they know who you are,
that they could throw you out
as they could one man. But today you are
every man who has been omitted
from any list: how quickly they see
they would have no chance.
You pour yourself a drink,
as if ready to become one of them.
Under your skin, nerve endings, loose
wires, almost perceivable. Something
somewhere is burning. You tell them
you’ve dreamed of moments like this,
to be in their lovely house,
to have everyone’s attention. You ask
of the children, are they napping?
You extend your hand to the host,
who won’t take it, reminds you
you were not invited, never will be.
You have things in your pockets
for everybody. House gifts.
Soon you’ll give them out.
If only they could understand
how you could be ruined
by kindness, how much
you could love them
if they knew how to stop you.
(-Stephen Dunn)
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One Love Story, Eight Takes
Where you are tender, you speak your plural.
Roland Barthes
1
One version of the story is I wish you back—
that I used each evening evening out
what all day spent wrinkling.
I bought a dress that was so extravagantly feminine
you could see my ovaries through it.
This is how I thought I would seduce you.
This is how frantic I hollowed out.
2
Another way of telling it
is to hire some kind of gnarled
and symbolic troll to make
a tape recording.
Of plastic beads coming unglued
from a child’s jewelry box.
This might be an important sound,
like serotonin or mighty mitochondria,
so your body hears about
how you stole the ring made
from a glittery opiate
and the locket that held candy.
3
It’s only fair that I present yet another side,
as insidious as it is,
because two sides hold up nothing but each other.
A tentacled skepticism,
a suspended contempt,
such fancies and toxins form a third wall.
A mean way to end
and I never dreamed we meant it.
4
Another way of putting it is like
slathering jam on a scrape.
Do sweets soothe pain or simply make it stick?
Which is the worst! So much technology
and no fix for sticky if you can’t taste it.
I mean there’s no relief unless.
So I’m coming, all this excitement,
to your house. To a place where there’s no room for play.
It is possible you’ll lock me out and I’ll finally
focus on making mudcakes look solid in the rain.
5
In some cultures the story told is slightly different—
in that it is set in an aquarium and the audience participates
as various fish. The twist comes when it is revealed
that the most personally attractive fish have eyes
only on one side and repel each other like magnets.
The starfish is the size of an eraser and does as much damage.
Starfish, the eponymous and still unlikely hero, has
those five pink moving suckerpads
that allow endless permutations so no solid memory,
no recent history, nothing better, left unsaid.
6
The story exists even when there are no witnesses,
kissers, tellers. Because secrets secrete,
and these versions tend to be slapstick, as if in a candy
factory the chocolate belted down the conveyor too fast
or everyone turned sideways at the same time by accident.
This little tale tries so hard to be humorous,
wants so badly to win affection and to lodge.
Because nothing is truly forgotten and loved.
7
Three million Richards can’t be wrong.
So when they levy a critique of an undertaking which,
in their view, overtakes, I take it seriously.
They think one may start a tale off whingy
and wretched in a regular voice.
But when one strikes out whimsically,
as if meta-is-better, as if it isn’t you,
as if this story is happening to nobody
it is only who you are fooling that’s nobody.
The Richards believe you cannot
privately jettison into the sky, just for fun.
You must stack stories from the foundation up.
From the sad heart and the feet tired of supporting it.
Language is architecture, after all, not an air capsule,
not a hang glide. This is real life.
So don’t invite anyone to a house that hasn’t been built.
Because no one unbuilds meticulously
and meticulosity is what allows hearing.
Three million Richards make one point.
I hear it in order to make others. Mistake.
8
As it turns out, there is a wrong way to tell this story.
I was wrong to tell you how muti-true everything is,
when it would be truer to say nothing.
I’ve invented so much and prevented more.
But, I’d like to talk with you about other things,
in absolute quiet. In extreme context.
To see you again, isn’t love revision?
It could have gone so many ways.
This just one of the ways it went.
Tell me another.
(- Brenda Shaughnessy)
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You Love, You Wonder
You love a woman and you wonder where she goes all night in some tricked-
out taxicab, with her high heels and her corset and her big, fat mouth.
You love how she only wears her glasses with you, how thick
and cow-eyed she swears it’s only ever you she wants to see.
You love her, you want her very ugly. If she is lovely big, you want her
scrawny. If she is perfect lithe, you want her ballooned, a cosmonaut.
How not to love her, her bouillabaisse, her orangina. When you took her
to the doctor the doctor said, “Wow, look at that!” and you were proud,
you asshole, you love and that’s how you are in love. Any expert, observing
human bodies, can see how she’s exceptional, how she ruins us all.
But you really love this woman, how come no one can see this? Everyone must
become suddenly very clumsy at recognizing beauty if you are to keep her.
You don’t want to lose anything, at all, ever. You want her sex depilated, you
want everyone else not blind, but perhaps paralyzed, from the eyes down.
You wonder where she goes all night. If she leaves you, you will know
everything about love. If she’s leaving you now, you already know it.
(-Brenda Shaughnessy)
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After Love
Afterward, the compromise.
Bodies resume their boundaries.
These legs, for instance, mine.
Your arms take you back in.
Spoons of our fingers, lips
admit their ownership.
The bedding yawns, a door
blows aimlessly ajar
and overhead, a plane
singsongs coming down.
Nothing is changed, except
there was a moment when
the wolf, the mongering wolf
who stands outside the self
lay lightly down, and slept.
(-Maxine Kumin)
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Duck/Rabbit
We remember the rabbit when we see the duck, but we cannot experience both at the same time. —E.H. Gombrich, Art and Illusion
What do you remember? When I looked at
his streaky glasses, I wanted
to leave him. And before that? He stole those
cherries for me at midnight. We were walking
in the rain and I loved him.
And before that? I saw him coming
toward me that time at the picnic,
edgy, foreign.
But you loved him? He sat in his room with
the shades drawn, brooding. But you
loved him? He gave me
a photo of himself at sixteen, diving
from the pier. It was summer. His arms
outstretched. And before that?
His mother was combing his soft curls
with her fingers and crying. Crying.
Is that what he said? He put on the straw hat
and raced me to the barn. What did he
tell you? Here's the dried rose, brown
as tobacco. Here's the letter that I tore
and pasted. The book of blank pages
with the velvet cover. But do you still
love him? When I rub the nap
backwards, the colors lift,
bristle. What do you mean?
Sometimes, when I'm all alone,
I find myself stroking it.
(-Chana Bloch)
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The Promise
Stay, I said
to the cut flowers.
They bowed
their heads lower.
Stay, I said to the spider,
who fled.
Stay, leaf.
It reddened,
embarrassed for me and itself.
Stay, I said to my body.
It sat as a dog does,
obedient for a moment,
soon starting to tremble.
Stay, to the earth
of riverine valley meadows,
of fossiled escarpments,
of limestone and sandstone.
It looked back
with a changing expression, in silence.
Stay, I said to my loves.
Each answered,
Always.
(- Jane Hirshfield)
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