Nelson - Maggie Nelson-Something Bright Then Holes

Something Bright, Then Holes 2007 Maggie Nelson ISBN 13: 978-1-933368-80-1 Interior design by Kimi Traube Cover design by Nora Nussbaum Cover art: Heartattack City by Tara Jane ONeil Published by Soft Skull Press 55 Washington St, Suite 804 Brooklyn NY 11021 Distributed by Publishers Group West www.pgw.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from the Library of Congress e-book ISBN 978-1-61902-697-1 SOMETHING BRIGHT, THEN HOLES I used to do this, the self I was used to do this the selves I no longer am nor understand. Something bright, then holes is how a girl, newly-sighted, once described a hand. I reread your letters, and remember correctly: you wanted to eat through me. Then fall asleep with your tongue against an organ, quiet enough to hear it kick. Learn everything there is to know about loving someone then walk away, coolly Im not ashamed Love is large and monstrous Never again will I be so blind, so ungenerous O bright snatches of flesh, blue and pink, then four dark furrows, four funnels, leading into an infinite ditch The heart, too, is porous; I lost the water you poured into it THE CANAL DIARIES The Canal Sitters Every evening the canal sitters make their way down the street, past the gigantic mustard-colored pipes that grind up cement, past the pale blue and pink factories exhaling through their vents Past the marble warehouse with its vats of stucco Past the oil trucks that stain the walls of their stable Past the yellow diamond that reads DEAD END then farther down, another: END Its why weve come here, apparently, and why we already know we may not stay long Meanwhile the sitters have lived here forever Their job is to sit and watch for new life Sit and see if anything is growing, has grown, will grow Sit and see what life is left after all human attempts to strangle it. What could possibly be born.

They sit and watch the cliffs, they sit and watch the water. They sit and watch the pigeons wheel above the cement crushers mean lavender dust. You have to watch very carefully. You have to sit at dusk with the man who wears all black, with his white beard, his ropey face. You cannot ask his name. You have to use a quiet pen.

You have to notice the white moth on the engorged gladiola, you have to pay attention to the wind. You have to go inside if the wind moves the dust toward you And it may come flying toward you Invisible, coarse, and possible Flying like a knife down the water. * Green Screams from an Italian family up the street That stupid kid hitting rock after rock with his metal bat. Id be a shitty boyfriend, you said, as if making a promise. I said, Its not the contentIm in love with, its the form. And that was tenderness. All last year I planned to write a book about the color blue.

Now Im suddenly surrounded by green, green gagging me pleasurably, green holding onto my hips from behind, digging into the cleft, the cleft that can be made. You have no idea what kind of light youll let in when you drop the bowl, no idea what will make you full * One week One week on the canal, one week of this new life. Each day brings astonishing sights; each day Im more petrified. Maybe living with you doesnt have to be so hard (not a new thought) If I could uproot the weed in me the weed that grows and grows so rank and garrulous, so greedy for the sun, its supremacy In the library I pick up book after book of poetry All of the voices are up late, sticky in their pajamas, all of them are listening to imaginary foxes, sounding out their cells and writing the distance down. * The man in black The man I feared most is now the man with whom I sit at every sunset. I didnt know * The Collector Early evening, a guy with a shopping cart full of debris.

He speaks in a raspy whisper, so if you want to hear him you have to get very close to his mouth. They dump down here at night, he says. Always have. Pureeconomics. They pay a guy like me 50 bucksto come dump. I collect, he says. * A Desk in the Weeds The dumping makes me angry. * A Desk in the Weeds The dumping makes me angry.

This week, a desk in the weeds, all the drawers locked shut. Used condoms stuck to the faux wood like slugs. Then one morning all the drawers were pried open, but there were no hidden treasures, just an old ladys datebook, old lady handwriting. Fell asleep in the East Broadway subway station last night until the Mobile Washing Unit spilled water mixed with bleach on my feet, as if I were just some sludge that came with the station, which, in a sense, I was. Now its a new day, full of promises I cant keep, or am choosing to be unable. * Invisible Last night I made a pact with the man in black.

His hands were rough * Special water Low tide, a little girl picks up a stone and puts it in her mouth; her father yells NO and peels it out. This is special water he says, gently shaking her little body. It may look prettybut its very, very bad for you. The dog doesnt care, she prances in the muck, then climbs in my lap and licks. Some habits die hard, says her owner His wet black blunt smelling like heaven * Night-sitting Went down to the canal last night at one a.m., my first time night-sitting. The water was black or just the darkest green, ultra-perilous its slow lapping bringing back my old impulse to suicide suddenly, without being unhappy, or at least without knowing it. Last night before we hung up I called you my friend.

It felt right, for the moment. The green canoe still humps the red canoe, the water very still though the trees are shaking, the fish monitors just tired logs and nets, bobbing stupidly against the cliff. You said my last letter takes up a lot of space; is radiant. I do feel a light growing, from far inside, like the moon just a bit fatter than half. And now after one sitting Im no longer scared of the canal at night Not scared to sit on the concrete slab stained with graffiti, not afraid to admire the new rash of marigolds glowing in the white, industrial light. One blue heron, he says, but it didnt land. One blue heron, he says, but it didnt land.

He doesnt want to talk, doesnt look in my direction. Im on raccoon watch, he explains. Forty silent minutes later, three raccoons come out of their burrows, braid their bodies along the cliff. Itll be raccoon stew tonightfor the homeless! he cries, clapping his hands together, as the moon rises gold behind them, another goddamn sign * All the partsWere going to get sprinkles, he says. Were going to get thunder. I sit on my notebook, ready to keep it dry. Only I can savemyself, you said, a knowledge that goes both ways. Only I can savemyself, you said, a knowledge that goes both ways.

Where the drops hit the paper, pale red spots appear Some deep chemical mystery All the parts I failed to cover * Reckless When the rain comes the water lifts itself up and surpasses the moss line, oozes over the cobblestones, threatening everything in its path. Last night I dreamt I didnt move in time, just stepped in Totally unmindful Totally reckless My feet thus lost to the live virus * 27 Days of Rain Is it action that waits in the wings of emotion, or is this feeling all that will remain? Actual touch is overrated, some say. I differ. Go to sleep in anger and heat and wake again to the pour of rain, streets emptied of their carnival. Pink prints on white tissue announce another months passing, inconsolable. *