» Poetry
Two Poems
Lowboy
My mother called
the antique mahogany dresser
that held her daughters’ underwear
in the hallway that ran
from her room to ours
a lowboy. On top of him,
she set an antique clock
that chimed every hour,
counting our lives for us.
At noon, I drank
in twelve bells, counting
ten on my fingers
and tapping my heart twice
with my pointer finger.
I was a child in love
with ritual but
I never questioned
my mother’s—to house
her three daughters’
multi-colored snake pit
of lace and satin and cotton
in the same wooden box,
stored where other mothers
treasured silver knives,
miniature spoons, and linen
they knew how to fold
into birds that posed on bone
china plates as men took
their seats at fancy tables.
Ours was a blurry childhood.
Our mother did not believe
in separating the strands of anything—
she threw every kind of utensil
into one empty, unlined
kitchen drawer. Her necklaces
struggled in a level of tangle
she’d never live to undo. We got lost
in the spice cabinet, could never
find the flavors we craved most
and our water would boil over, stain
the black sheen of the stovetop
as our books leaned against each other
in a confusion of genre. Surely
our illustrated Cinderella yearned to pry open
the pages of my mother’s art books
where women spread their legs, refused
to don lingerie. My mother hurled
her apprentices’ unmentionables
into a place that reeked of a forest
before it’s been selected and sliced
by the town’s strongest men.
We idolized her, but questioned
what life was like at other houses
where dinner parties twinkled
as we watched them, barefoot
from the street with our hair matted
into braids from the previous week.
The plates and saucers soared
to each guest like clockwork
as they gripped their forks,
licked their lips and leaned back.
Perhaps every woman in our house
was jealous of each white,
monogrammed linen cloth,
how it rested gently
in the warm lap of a man,
how it got to be lifted
by experienced hands
toward his hungry mouth.
I Told My Mother I Was Attending Church with Anthony Steele
It never occurred to me that anyone would know me like I know myself.
The first time a boy put his tongue between my thighs
was on a wooden picnic table. It was Sunday. Broad daylight. I was
splinterless on his father’s boat as that boy named after metal,
named after taking without someone’s knowledge,
ferried me gorgeously out to an unnamed island he knew would be deserted.
I plunged the steel anchor into the crest of the shore and our bodies broke
away from the boat, leaping into the dunes where we lapped salt water
off each other until we were dry again. We hid behind palm fronds like
the ones laid before Jesus as he rode to his crucifixion. It was exhilarating
to be laid gently on a wooden altar. I turned my head and studied
a circle of gray stones where ash danced, flitted away from where
a fire once roared. Sizzled. I wanted to burn, so I covered my eyes
with my hands to shield the light. I don’t remember either of us praying.