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“For the Wife Beater's Wife
With blue irises her face is blossomed. Blue
Circling to yellow, circling to brown on her cheeks.
The long bone of her jaw untracked
She hides in our kitchen.
He sleeps it off next door.
Her chicken legs tucked under her
She's frantic with lies, animated
Before the swirling smoke.
On her cigarette she leaves red prints, red
Like a cut on the white cup.
Like a skin she pulls her sweater around her.
She's cold,
She brings the cold in with her.
In our kitchen she hides.
He sleeps it off next door, his great
Belly heaving with booze.
Again and again she tells the story
As if the details ever changed,
As if blows to the face were somehow
Different beating to beating.
We reach for her but can't help.
She retreats into her cold love of him
And looks across the table at us
As if across a sea.
Next door he claws out of sleep.
She says she thinks she'll do something
After all, with her hair tonight.”
―
With blue irises her face is blossomed. Blue
Circling to yellow, circling to brown on her cheeks.
The long bone of her jaw untracked
She hides in our kitchen.
He sleeps it off next door.
Her chicken legs tucked under her
She's frantic with lies, animated
Before the swirling smoke.
On her cigarette she leaves red prints, red
Like a cut on the white cup.
Like a skin she pulls her sweater around her.
She's cold,
She brings the cold in with her.
In our kitchen she hides.
He sleeps it off next door, his great
Belly heaving with booze.
Again and again she tells the story
As if the details ever changed,
As if blows to the face were somehow
Different beating to beating.
We reach for her but can't help.
She retreats into her cold love of him
And looks across the table at us
As if across a sea.
Next door he claws out of sleep.
She says she thinks she'll do something
After all, with her hair tonight.”
―
“Winter's last rain and a light I don't recognize
through the trees and I come back in my mind
to the man who made me suck his cock
when I was seven, in sunlight, between boxcars.
I thought I could leave him standing there
in the years, half smile on his lips,
small hands curled into small fists,
but after he finished, he held my hand in his
as if astonished, until the houses were visible
just beyond the railyard. He held my hand
but before that he slapped me hard on the face
when I would not open my mouth for him.
I do not want to say his whole hips
slammed into me, but they did, and a black wave
washed over my brain, changing me
so I could not move among my people in the old way.
On my way home I stopped in the churchyard
to try to find a way to stay alive.
In the branches a red-wing flitted, warning me.
In the rectory, Father prepared
the body and the blood for mass
but God could not save me from a mouthful of cum.
That afternoon some lives turned away from the light.
He taught me how to move my tongue around.
In his hands he held my head like a lover.
Say it clearly and you make it beautiful, no matter what.”
―
through the trees and I come back in my mind
to the man who made me suck his cock
when I was seven, in sunlight, between boxcars.
I thought I could leave him standing there
in the years, half smile on his lips,
small hands curled into small fists,
but after he finished, he held my hand in his
as if astonished, until the houses were visible
just beyond the railyard. He held my hand
but before that he slapped me hard on the face
when I would not open my mouth for him.
I do not want to say his whole hips
slammed into me, but they did, and a black wave
washed over my brain, changing me
so I could not move among my people in the old way.
On my way home I stopped in the churchyard
to try to find a way to stay alive.
In the branches a red-wing flitted, warning me.
In the rectory, Father prepared
the body and the blood for mass
but God could not save me from a mouthful of cum.
That afternoon some lives turned away from the light.
He taught me how to move my tongue around.
In his hands he held my head like a lover.
Say it clearly and you make it beautiful, no matter what.”
―
“We are not always right
about what we think will save us.”
―
about what we think will save us.”
―
“Say it clearly and you make it beautiful no matter what.”
―
―
“If only
they had told us
that it was all metaphor,
I might have learned;”
―
they had told us
that it was all metaphor,
I might have learned;”
―
“Elegy for the Swans at Grace Pond"
Bored with bread the children throw to her,
the swan who lost her one great love
when he washed up, tangled in the cold dawn,
drowned in the roots of the willow,
clings to the blue pond and its amnesia.
Grief makes her circle the willow’s shadow
where she waits for him to appear
evenings when the light disappears
and each lap of waves grows greener.
Before a hole opened up in the life
they’d invented in the clouds,
we watched them, tangle their necks
around each other, sailing side by side
as to save themselves from our world.”
― What Saves Us
Bored with bread the children throw to her,
the swan who lost her one great love
when he washed up, tangled in the cold dawn,
drowned in the roots of the willow,
clings to the blue pond and its amnesia.
Grief makes her circle the willow’s shadow
where she waits for him to appear
evenings when the light disappears
and each lap of waves grows greener.
Before a hole opened up in the life
they’d invented in the clouds,
we watched them, tangle their necks
around each other, sailing side by side
as to save themselves from our world.”
― What Saves Us
“Elegy for the Swans at Grace Pond"
Bored with bread the children throw to her,
the swan who lost her one great love
when he washed up, tangled in the cold dawn,
drowned in the roots of the willow,
clings to the blue pond and its amnesia.
Grief makes her circle the willow’s shadow
where she waits for him to appear
evenings when the light disappears
and each lap of waves grows greener.
Before a hole opened up in the life
they’d invented in the clouds,
we watched them, tangle their necks
around each other, sailing side by side
as to save themselves from our world.
Bruce Weigl, What Saves Us. (Triquarterly; 1 edition January 1, 1992)”
― What Saves Us
Bored with bread the children throw to her,
the swan who lost her one great love
when he washed up, tangled in the cold dawn,
drowned in the roots of the willow,
clings to the blue pond and its amnesia.
Grief makes her circle the willow’s shadow
where she waits for him to appear
evenings when the light disappears
and each lap of waves grows greener.
Before a hole opened up in the life
they’d invented in the clouds,
we watched them, tangle their necks
around each other, sailing side by side
as to save themselves from our world.
Bruce Weigl, What Saves Us. (Triquarterly; 1 edition January 1, 1992)”
― What Saves Us
