Written by
Erin Belieu |
Ferdinand was systematic when
he drove his daughter mad.
With a Casanova's careful art,
he moved slowly,
stole only one child at a time
through tunnels specially dug
behind the walls of her royal
chamber, then paid the Duenna
well to remember nothing
but his appreciation.
Imagine how quietly
the servants must have worked,
loosening the dirt, the muffled
ring of pick-ends against
the castle stone.
The Duenna,
one eye gauging the drugged girl's
sleep, each night handing over
another light parcel, another
small body vanished
through the mouth of a hole.
Once you were a daughter, too,
then a wife and now the mother
of a baby with a Spanish name.
Paloma, you call her, little dove;
she sleeps in a room beyond you.
Your husband, too, works late,
drinks too much at night, comes
home lit, wanting sex and dinner.
You feign sleep, shrunk
in the corner of the queen-sized bed.
You've confessed, you can't feel things
when they touch you;
take Prozac for depression, Ativan
for the buzz.
Drunk, you call your father
who doesn't want to claim
a ha!fsand-niggergrandkid.
He says he never loved your mother.
No one remembers Juana; almost
everything's forgotten in time,
and if I tell her story,
it's only when guessing
what she loved, what she dreamed
about, the lost details of a life
that barely survives history.
God and Latin, I suppose, what she loved.
And dreams of mice pouring out
from a hole.
The Duenna, in spite
of her black, widow's veil, leaning
to kiss her, saying Juana, don't listen.
.
.
|
Written by
Erin Belieu |
Writing from Boston, where sky is simply
property, a flourish topping crowds
of condos and historic real estate,
I'm trying to imagine blue sky:
the first time, where it happened,
what I was becoming.
Being taken there
by car, from a town so newly born that grass
still accounted all distance, an explanation
drawn in measureless yellows, a tone
stubbling the whole world, ten minutes away.
Consider now how the single pussy willow
edging a cattle pond in winter becomes
a wind-shivered monument to what this mean
a placid loneliness asking nothing, nothing?.
.
.
Not knowing then the proper name for things
green chubs of milo, the husbandry of soy,
bovine patience, the rhythm of the cud,
sea green foam washing round
a cow's mouth, its tender udders,
the surprise of an animal's dignity.
.
.
but something comes before
Before car or cow, before
sky becomes.
.
.
That sky, I mean, disregarded
as buried memory .
.
.
Yes.
There was a time before.
Remember when the tiny sightless hand
could not know, not say hand, but knew it
in its straying, knew it in the cool
condensation steaming the station wagon windows,
thrums of heat blowing a brand of idiot's safety
over the brightly-wrapped package
that was then your body, well-loved?
This must have been you, looking out at that world
of flat, buttered fields and blackbirds ascending.
.
.
'
But what was sky then?
Today, I receive a postcard of
a blue guitar.
Here, snow falls with wings,
tumbling in its feathered body, melting
on the window glass.
How each evening becomes
another beautiful woman holding
the color of expensive sapphires
against her throat, I'll never know.
It is an ordinary clarity.
So then was it music?
Something like love or
words, a sentimental moment once
years ago, that blue sky?
How soon the sky and I have grown apart.
On the postcard, an old man hangs
half-dead, strung over his instrument, and what
I have imagined is half-dead, too.
Our bones
end hollow, sky blue; the flute comes untuned.
|
Written by
Erin Belieu |
Omaha, Nebraska They do not sleep nights
but stand between
rows of glowing corn and
cabbages grown on acres past
the edge of the city.
Surrendered flags,
their nightgowns furl and
unfurl around their legs.
Only women could be this
white.
Like mules,
they are sterile
and it appears that
their mouths are always
open.
Because they are thin
as weeds, the albinos
look hungry.
If you drive out
to the farm, tree branches will
point the way.
No map will show
where, no phone is listed.
It will seem that the moon, plump
above their shoulders, is constant,
orange as harvest all year
long.
We say, when a mother
gives birth to an albino girl,
she feigns sleep after
labor while an Asian
man steals in, spirits
the pale baby away.
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Written by
Erin Belieu |
Make your daily monument the Ego,
use a masochist's epistemology
of shame and dog-eared certainty
that others less exacting might forgo.
If memory's an elephant, then feed
the animal.
Resist revision: the stand
of feral raspberry, contraband
fruit the crows stole, ferrying seed
for miles .
.
.
No.
It was a broken hedge,
not beautiful, sunlight tacking
its leafy gut in loose sutures.
Lacking
imagination, you'll take the pledge
to remember - not the sexy, new
idea of history, each moment
swamped in legend, liable to judgment
and erosion; still, an appealing view,
to draft our lives, a series of vignettes
where endings could be substituted -
your father, unconvoluted
by desire, not grown bonsai in regret,
the bedroom of blue flowers left intact.
The room was nearly dark, the streetlight
a sentinel at the white curtain, its night
face implicated.
Do not retract
this.
Something did happen.
You recall,
can feel a stumbling over wet ground,
the cave the needled branches made around
your body, the creature you couldn't console.
|
Written by
Erin Belieu |
This hideous,
upholstered in gift-wrap fabric, chromed
in places, design possibility
for the future canned ham.
Its genius
wonderful, circa I993.
I've assumed a great many things:
the perversity of choices, affairs
I did or did not have.
But let the record show
that I was happy.
O let the hideous chair
stand! For the Chinese apothecary
with his roots and fluids;
for Paoul at the bank;
for the young woman in Bailey's Drug,
expert on henna; and Warren Beatty,
tough, sleek stray.
For Fluff and Flo,
drunk at noon, and the Am Vets lady
reading her Vogue, the cholos
on the corner where the 57 bus comes by,
for their gratifying, cool appraisal
and courtly manner when I pass.
Let the seat be comfortable
but let the chair be hideous
and stand against the correct,
hygienic, completely proper
subdued in taxidermied elegance.
Let me have in any future
some hideous thing to love,
here Boston, MA, 8 Farrington Ave.
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Written by
Erin Belieu |
It bothers me: the genital smell of the bay
drifting toward me on the T stop, the train
circling the city like a dingy, year-round
Christmas display.
The Puritans were right! Sin
is everywhere in Massachusetts, hell-bound
in the population.
it bothers me
because it's summer now and sticky - no rain
to cool things down; heat like a wound
that will not close.
Too hot, these shameful
percolations of the body that bloom
between strangers on a train.
It bothers me
now that I'm alone and singles foam
around the city, bothered by the lather, the rings
of sweat.
Know this bay's a watery animal, hind-end
perpetually raised: a wanting posture, pain
so apparent, wanting so much that it bothers me.
|
Written by
Erin Belieu |
When I think of the many people
who privately despise children,
I can't say I'm completely shocked,
having been one.
I was not
exceptional, uncomfortable as that is
to admit, and most children are not
exceptional.
The particulars of
cruelty, sizes Large and X-Large,
memory gnawing it like
a fat dog, are ordinary: Mean Miss
Smigelsky from the sixth grade;
the orthodontist who
slapped you for crying out.
Children
frighten us, other people's and
our own.
They reflect
the virused figures in which failure
began.
We feel accosted by their
vulnerable natures.
Each child turns
into a problematic ocean, a mirrored
body growing denser and more
difficult to navigate until
sunlight merely bounces
off the surface.
They become impossible
to sound.
Like us, but even weaker.
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Written by
Erin Belieu |
I've known the pleasures of being
fired at least eleven times—
most notably by Larry who found my snood
unsuitable, another time by Jack,
whom I was sleeping with.
Poor attitude,
tardiness, a contagious lack
of team spirit; I have been unmotivated
squirting perfume onto little cards,
while stocking salad bars, when stripping
covers from romance novels, their heroines
slaving on the chain gang of obsessive love—
and always the same hard candy
of shame dissolving in my throat;
handing in my apron, returning the cash-
register key.
And yet, how fine it feels,
the perversity of freedom which never signs
a rent check or explains anything to one's family.
.
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