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Femme's Dictionary
In an exquisite and powerful first collection of poetry Carol Guess blends musical language with social commentary. Her poems focus on the lives of women struggling to put words to the unspeakable.
Watercolor: Leda
The swan nestles his beak between the woman’s
smallish breasts. His wings curve like orchards,
or the broad flaps of planes that seared
acres of sky in the early months
of the last noticeable war. Returning
from the front, a man lays his head
between his lover’s breasts, listening
for the heart nestled among orchards of skin and bone.
He lets scars drift from him like petals.
He pretends he can forget acres of names.
The most noticeable thing in the picture
is the quiet of the woman’s lips
as the bird comes to her, and she pretends
she will forget warm breath to breast,
beast-touch. But everything returns to haunt,
like obscene pictures, like the heart
of the swan, beating a rhythm out
beneath winged ribs. The murmur of push or drop
through the bird’s heart flaps, the murmur
of beautiful, dead men in their last flights returns
and it is like the return
of the planes at night, when someone’s war
has just begun to drop. The soldier lets his thoughts
nestle among the rhythms of the early front. The woman
rests her forehead between wingspread hands,
and the old hopes drift like petals
shaken from boughs in pre-war orchards,
before the great planes seared their trunks
with scars, obscenely small, like names.
Carol Guess is the author of two novels and a memoir. Her poetry is published in Poetry Northwest, The Harvard Gay and Lesbian Review, and Bakunin, among others. Her novel Switch was a finalist for the ALA GLBT Award. She teaches at Western Washington University and lives in Seattle.
Watercolor: Leda
The swan nestles his beak between the woman’s
smallish breasts. His wings curve like orchards,
or the broad flaps of planes that seared
acres of sky in the early months
of the last noticeable war. Returning
from the front, a man lays his head
between his lover’s breasts, listening
for the heart nestled among orchards of skin and bone.
He lets scars drift from him like petals.
He pretends he can forget acres of names.
The most noticeable thing in the picture
is the quiet of the woman’s lips
as the bird comes to her, and she pretends
she will forget warm breath to breast,
beast-touch. But everything returns to haunt,
like obscene pictures, like the heart
of the swan, beating a rhythm out
beneath winged ribs. The murmur of push or drop
through the bird’s heart flaps, the murmur
of beautiful, dead men in their last flights returns
and it is like the return
of the planes at night, when someone’s war
has just begun to drop. The soldier lets his thoughts
nestle among the rhythms of the early front. The woman
rests her forehead between wingspread hands,
and the old hopes drift like petals
shaken from boughs in pre-war orchards,
before the great planes seared their trunks
with scars, obscenely small, like names.
Carol Guess is the author of two novels and a memoir. Her poetry is published in Poetry Northwest, The Harvard Gay and Lesbian Review, and Bakunin, among others. Her novel Switch was a finalist for the ALA GLBT Award. She teaches at Western Washington University and lives in Seattle.
77 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2004
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
January 14, 2010
So excellent. Captures the texture, pain and mood of a suburban upbringing and difficult adulthood quite well.
Displaying 1 of 1 review