of you a staircase
away from me. To be near you
and not near you
is ordinary.
You
are ordinary.
Still, how many afternoons have I spent
peeling blue paint from
our porch steps, peering above
hedgerows, the few parked cars for the first
glimpse of you. How many hours under
the overgrown, pink camillas, thinking
the color was wrong for you, thinking
you’d appear
after my next
blink.
Soon you’ll come down the stairs
to tell me something. And I’ll say,
okay. Okay. I’ll say it
like that, say it just like
that, I’ll go on being
your never-enough.
It’s not the best in you
I long for. It’s when you’re noteless,
numb at the ends of my fingers, all is
all. I say it is.
Annunciation: Eve to Ave
The wings behind the man I never saw.
But often, afterward, I dreamed his lips,
remembered the slight angle of his hips,
his feet among the tulips and the straw.
I liked the way his voice deepened as he called.
As for the words, I liked the showmanship
with which he spoke them. Behind him, distant ships
went still; the water was smooth as his jaw—
And when I learned that he was not a man—
bullwhip, horsewhip, unzip, I could have crawled
through thorn and bee, the thick of hive, rosehip,
courtship, lordship, gossip and lavender.
(But I was quiet, quiet as
eagerness—that astonished, dutiful fall.)
Annunciation Overheard from the Kitchen
I could hear them from the kitchen, speaking as if
something important had happened.
I was washing the pears in cool water, cutting
the bruises from them.
From my place at the sink, I could hear
a jet buzz hazily overhead, a vacuum
start up next door, the click,
click between shots.
“Mary, step back from the camera.”
There was a softness to his voice
but no fondness, no hurry in it.
There were faint sounds
like walnuts being dropped by crows onto the street,
almost a brush
of windchime from the porch—
Windows around me everywhere half-open—
My skin alive with the pitch.
Night Shifts at the Group Home
for Lily Mae
The job was easy: I tucked
them in, kicked off my shoes, listened for
the floor to go quiet. Everyone
slept except one: outside her door,
she paced, she hummed, holding
the edge of her torn
nightgown. Pointing, I told
her: to bed. Your bed. But she would not
stay there. She was old,
older than my mother: manic, caught
up in gibberish, determined to
sleep on my cot—
At first it was just to
quiet her. I could only sleep
if she slept, and I needed relief
from myself. That is how she
became a body next to mine
whether or not I wanted there to be
a body. She climbed
into my bed. I let her
sleep hot and damp against my spine.
All night she rocked, she turned,
she poked her spastic elbows
into my calves and slurred
her broken noises in the dark. All the old
fans went round in clicks
those summer nights—and she rolled
in bed and kicked
me in the head and I was
happy. No words, no tricks,
I just didn’t love
my loneliness. My mind
felt cooler
with her there. Beside
her, I could have been anyone.
She had no word for me and not the kind
of mind to keep one.
And if she kicked
me, some nights, just
for the fun of it—who was I
to disappoint my one?
Sometimes I imagine I
was someone she won
at a fair as the wheel spun
under the floating, unfaltering sun
and clicked each lucky one
and one
until I was happily undone.
Happy Ideas
I had the happy idea to fasten a bicycle wheel to a kitchen stool and watch it turn.
—DUCHAMP
I had the happy idea to suspend some blue globes in the air
and watch them pop.
I had the happy idea to put my little copper horse on the shelf so we could stare at each other all evening.
I had the happy idea to create a void in myself.
Then to call it natural.
Then to call it supernatural.
I had the happy idea to wrap a blue scarf around my head and spin.
I had the happy idea that somewhere a child was being born who was nothing like Helen or Jesus except in the sense of changing everything.
I had the happy idea that someday I would find both pleasure and punishment, that I would know them and feel them,
and that, until I did, it would be almost as good to pretend.
I had the happy idea to call myself happy.
I had the happy idea that the dog digging a hole in the yard in the twilight had his nose deep in mold-life.
I had the happy idea that what I do not understand is more real than what I do,
and then the happier idea to buckle myself
into two blue velvet shoes.
I had the happy idea to polish the reflecting glass and say
hello to my own blue soul. Hello, blue soul. Hello.
It was my happiest idea.
Annunciation as Right Whale with Kelp Gulls
The gulls have learned to feed on the whales…. The proportion of whales attacked annually has soared from 1% in 1974 to 78% today.
— BBC NEWS
I tell you I have seen them in their glee
diving fast into the sureness of her flesh,
fast into the softness of
her wounds—have seen them
peel her, have seen them give themselves
full to the effort and the
lull of it—
Why wouldn’t such sweetness
For they outnumber her.
For she is tender, pockmarked, full
of openness. For they
swoop down on her wherever she surfaces. For they
eat her alive. For they take mercy on others and show them the way.
At high tide, more gulls lift from the mussel beds and soar toward her.
For they do sit and eat, for they do sit and eat
a sweetness prepared for them
until she disappears again into the water.
Here, There Are Blueberries
When I see the bright clouds, a sky empty of moon and stars,
I wonder what I am, that anyone should note me.
Here there are blueberries, what should I fear?
Here there is bread in thick slices, of whom should I be afraid?
Under the swelling clouds, we spread our blankets.
Here in this meadow, we open our baskets
to unpack blueberries, whole bowls of them,
berries not by the work of our hands, berries not by the work of our fingers.
What taste the bright world has, whole fields
without wires, the bla
ckened moss, the clouds
swelling at the edges of the meadow. And for this,
I did nothing, not even wonder.
You must live for something, they say.
People don’t live just to keep on living.
But here is the quince tree, a sky bright and empty.
Here there are blueberries, there is no need to note me.
Do Not Desire Me, Imagine Me
As Corpse
Loosened, bare, profusely female,
the pulse in my thigh
unthreaded—
As Hair
Clear of furies, of flowers,
the shade of dry paste
As Skull
Fissured:
an unlit chandelier
As Dirt
The ants sift through
and soften
And with no fingertips, imagine
As Dust
You can hang the air on me
Insertion of Meadow with Flowers
In 1371, beneath the angel’s feet,
Veneziano added a meadow—
a green expanse with white
and yellow broom flowers, the kind
that—until the sun warms them—
have no scent—
God could have chosen other means than flesh.
Imagine he did
and the girl on her knees in this meadow—
open, expectant, dreamily rocking,
her mouth open, quiet—
is only important because we recognize
the wish. For look, the flowers
do not spin, not even
the threads of their shadows—
and they are infused
with what they did not
reach for.
Out of nothing does not mean
into nothing.
Knocking or Nothing
Knock me or nothing, the things of this world
ring in me, shrill-gorged and shrewish,
clicking their charms and their chains and their spouts.
Let them. Let the fans whirr.
their flimsy pockets, and I
was empty enough,
sugared and stretched on the unmown lawn,
dumb as the frost-pink tongues
of the unpruned roses.
When you put your arms around me in that moment,
when you pulled me to you and leaned
back, when you lifted me
just a few inches, when you shook me
hard then, had you ever heard
such emptiness?
I had room for every girl’s locket,
every last dime and pocketknife.
Oh my out-sung, fierce, unthinkable—
why rattle only the world
you placed in me? Won’t you clutter the unkissed,
idiot stars? They blink and blink
like quiet shepherds,
like brides-about-your-neck.
Call them out of that quietness.
Knock them in their nothing, against their empty enamel,
against the dark that has no way to hold them
and no appetite.
Call in the dead to touch them.
Let them slip on their own chinks of light.
The Lushness of It
It’s not that the octopus wouldn’t love you—
not that it wouldn’t reach for you
with each of its tapering arms.
You’d be as good as anyone, I think,
to an octopus. But the creatures of the sea,
like the sea, don’t think
about themselves, or you. Keep on floating there,
cradled, unable to burn. Abandon
yourself to the sway, the ruffled eddies, abandon
your heavy legs to the floating meadows
of seaweed and feel
the bloom of phytoplankton, spindrift, sea
spray, barnacles. In the dark benthic realm, the slippery nekton
glide over the abyssal plains and as you float you can feel
that upwelling of cold, deep water touch
the skin stretched over
your spine. No, it’s not that the octopus
wouldn’t love you. If it touched,
if it tasted you, each of its three
hearts would turn red.
Will theologians of any confession refute me?
Not the bluecap salmon. Not its dotted head.
Notes
And in the sixth month the angel Gabriel was sent from God unto a city of Galilee, named Nazareth, to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin’s name was Mary. And the angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women. And when she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her mind what manner of salutation this should be. And the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favour with God. And, behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name JESUS. He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest: and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of his father David: And he shall reign over the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end. Then said Mary unto the angel, How shall this be, seeing I know not a man? And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God. And, behold, thy cousin Elisabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren. For with God nothing shall be impossible. And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word. And the angel departed from her.—King James Bible, Luke 1:26–38
“Annunciation in Nabokov and Starr”: Italicized phrases in this poem are taken from Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov and The Starr Report by Kenneth Starr.
“Notes on a 39-Year-Old Body”: The language of each section is taken from the combined text of the two epigraphs. Imported language is marked in brackets.
“So-and-So Descending from the Bridge”: A mother threw her two children off the Sellwood Bridge in Portland, Oregon, in the early morning hours of May 23, 2009. One child died; one survived.
“Another True Story”: Thank you to Roger Cohen for sharing the photograph and for relating Bert Cohen’s story so powerfully in the essay “Lake Water Reflections.” The essay, in adapted form, will appear in his forthcoming family memoir, The Girl from Human Street.
“Annunciation in Byrd and Bush”: Italicized phrases in this poem, words of Senator Robert Byrd and President George W. Bush, are taken from various sources including:
George W. Bush’s Address to a Joint Session of Congress, September 20, 2001, and “Remarks by the President to Coal Miners and Their Families and Their Community,” Green Tree Fire Department, Green Tree, Pennsylvania, 2002.
Senator Robert Byrd’s remarks to the Senate on February 13, 2003 (Congressional Record 108th Congress).
“To the Dove within the Stone”: This poem appeared as part of the Manual Labors exhibit at the Laboratory of Art and Ideas at Belmar in Denver, Colorado.
“How (Not) to Speak of God”: The title is taken from Peter Rollins’s book of the same name.
“Yet Not Consumed”: “And the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of the midst of a bush. He looked, and behold, the bush was burning, yet it was not consumed.” —Exodus 3:2
“On Wanting to Tell [ ] about a Girl Eating Fish Eyes”: “Your Majesty, when we compare the present life of man with that time of which we have no knowledge, it seems to me like the swift flight of a lone sparrow through the banqueting-hall where you sit in the winter months to dine with your thanes and counselors. Inside there is a comforting fire to warm the room; outside, the wintry storms of snow and rain are raging. This sparr
ow flies swiftly in through one door of the hall, and out through another. While he is inside, he is safe from the wintry storms; but after a few moments of comfort, he vanishes from sight into the darkness whence he came. Similarly, man appears on earth for a little while, but we know nothing of what went before this life, and what follows.” —Bede, A History of the English Church and People. This poem is for Donald Justice.
“The Cathars Etc.”: “Here at the isolated Lastours castles, which were built along a defensive cliff spur, the Cathars spent much of 1209 heroically fending off the onslaught. So the crusader leader, the sadistic Simon de Montfort, resorted to primitive psychological warfare. He ordered his troops to gouge out the eyes of 100 luckless prisoners, cut off their noses and lips, then send them back to the towers led by a prisoner with one remaining eye.” — “The Besieged and the Beautiful in Languedoc” by Tony Perrottet, The New York Times, May 6, 2010.
“Happy Ideas”: “And why that cerulean color? The blue comes partly from the sea, partly from the sky. While water in a glass is transparent, it absorbs slightly more red light than blue … the red light is absorbed out and what gets reflected back to space is mainly blue.”—Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot
“Here, There Are Blueberries”: The italicized phrases are adapted from Anat Cohen, as quoted by Jeffrey Goldberg in his 2004 New Yorker article, “Among the Settlers”: “You don’t live just to keep living. That’s not the point of life.” This poem is for my father, Charles A. Szybist.
Acknowledgments
Sincere thanks to the editors of the following journals in which these poems first appeared, sometimes in different forms:
Agni Online: “Do Not Desire Me, Imagine Me.” The Burnside Review: “The Heroine as She Turns to Face Me.” The Cincinnati Review: “Annunciation as Fender’s Blue Butterfly with Kincaid’s Lupine.” The Chronicle of Higher Education Review: “Happy Ideas.” Electronic Poetry Review: “The Lushness of It” and “Invitation.” Fifth Wednesday Journal: “Night Shifts at the Group Home.” The Iowa Review: “Annunciation (from the grass beneath them),” “Annunciation under Erasure,” “Annunciation in Play,” and “Annunciation: Eve to Ave.” The Kenyon Review: “Yet Not Consumed,” “Girls Overheard While Assembling a Puzzle,” “Annunciation as Right Whale with Kelp Gulls,” and “On a Spring Day in Baltimore, the Art Teacher Asks the Class to Grow Flowers.” The Laurel Review: “You Tell Me to Take a—” (now titled “Holy”). Lo-Ball: “Annunciation Overheard from the Kitchen.” Long Journey: Contemporary Northwest Poets Anthology: “Knocking or Nothing” and “Touch Gallery: Joan of Arc.” Meridian: “The Troubadours Etc.” and “Close Reading.” Ploughshares: “Here, There Are Blueberries” and “So-and-So Descending from the Bridge.” Plume: “Notes on a 39-Year-Old Body.” Poetry: “On Wanting to Tell [ ] about a Girl Eating Fish Eyes” and “Hail.” Poets.org, The Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day Series: “All Times & All Tenses Alive in This Moment” (now titled “How (Not) to Speak of God”). Sou’wester: “Entrances and Exits.” Tin House: “Annunciation in Byrd and Bush,” “Annunciation in Nabokov and Starr.” The Virginia Quarterly Review: “I Send News: She Has Survived the Tumor after All.” West Branch: “Insertion of Meadow with Flowers” and “Long after the Desert and Donkey.” Witness: “Conversion Figure.”