Burn (Crab Orchard in Poetry) - Softcover

STEALING ARIEL 

What had I become the night I dreamed   
I shot my mother’s Smith and Wesson pistol?  
I’d never held an oil-slick metal barrel,  
fingered the grip of a powerful god.   

I only dreamed I shot my mother’s pistol,  
but my aunt’s man told police I cased his Jeep.  
Seventeen, I’d never fingered the grip of a powerful god. 
Under his grin, his vowels are bitter sugar. 

He told the cop on call I cased his Jeep. 
Loosened a lug nut. Ice-picked his tire. 
Under his grin, his vowels are bitter sugar. 
She tried to kill my wife, he said. She’d kill. 

He said, She ice-picked my tire— 
His lies, stiff as gin in the morning.  
She tried to kill my wife, he said. She’d kill.  
He hated my mother, which meant he hated me.  

His lies, stiff as gin in the morning.  
Lights from the cop’s car glinted and burned.  
He hated my mother, which meant he’d hurt me.  
The cop looked at me like one of his daughters. 

Lights from the cop’s car glinted and burned.  
Last week, I’d stolen my mother’s copy of Ariel. 
The cop looked at me like one of his daughters. 
My aunt’s man said, Honey, your life is over.  

I thought of Sylvia Plath, her lines 
Your body. / Hurts me as the world hurts God. 
Your life is over, the cop said,  
if you call my station again.  

Your body. / Hurts me as the world hurts God. 
I’d never held an oil-slick metal barrel.  
If you call my station again, he said. 
What had I become that night? I dreamed. 

 

A BRIEF HISTORY OF LIGHT
 
They will always be love letters,
closed caption transcriptions unspooling across
the TV. My mother, hard of hearing,
 
watched her stories in silence.
Guiding Light, One Life to Live,
living room lit by two Tiffany lamps.
 
Deep-throated wisterias, peonies
etched against cream at the crown,
all of it cast sleek flames at the ceiling.
 
How many times did I stare into
a lampshade, its luster blunted through
coiled bronze wire and blown favrile,
 
the canopy of glass in rich charade
all night? Just like that, my knees dirt
-smeared again. Braid down my back,
 
I’m tilling mica from soil at recess,
swearing it would catch fire in my hands.
I imagined angels tunneling through
 
layers of earth, catching their wings
on oak roots, bricks, and those little wounds
lodging there, waiting for me
 
to dig them up with sticks. The way it
sieved light through its scratched surface,
nothing could compete, not the Goody’s
 
barrettes I’d spent whole hours unearthing
while other girls lost themselves in games
of freeze tag, not their tortoiseshell glare.
 
Queen of the hunt, I’d strut the cache
with me wherever I’d go. So when she died,
my mother, I grasped her lamps
 
as if I were pulling slivers of dirt-rough
mica from the earth, knowing their iridescence
could burn any house down.


[end of excerpt]