Schiff - A Woman of Property
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- Book:A Woman of Property
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- Publisher:Penguin Publishing Group
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- Year:2016
- City:New York
- Rating:5 / 5
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Title: A woman of property / Robyn Schiff. Description: New York, New York : Penguin Books, [2016] | Series: Penguin Poets Identifiers: LCCN 2015048702 (print) | LCCN 2016001989 (ebook) | ISBN 9780143128274 (paperback) | ISBN 9780698407343 (ebook) Subjects: | BISAC: POETRY / American / General. Classification: LCC PS3619.C365 A6 2016 (print) | LCC PS3619.C365 (ebook) | DDC 811/.6dc23 Version_1
He never would again. The brooding lettuces in their falcon hoods. The coppice gate wound shut by weeds, the jaws of life trying to keep it closed tight but anyone can climb it. As a child I played on a gate in a neighborhood park that swung of itself and sounded like the distress call of a rabbit. I stood on the bottom slat and backed in and out of the air. Ill never get out of here.
The gate was pure folly, without fencing on either side, Greek tragedy staged around a doorway the imagination strains to enter. I was raised in an aisle seat with an eye line of an actor about to come through from behind it. Melodramatic onions grew wild. I cried and cried until someone said its okay to cry, it means the onions are fresh. Every dream begins with a threshold. Meat in the driveway where dogs tipped the garbage.
Wheres your mouth? There is a whistle you can buy that makes the sound of a rabbit screaming hunters use to call whatever they want out of the thicket because everything they want wants rabbit for dinner. Move your hand along the shaft to change the call from jack to cotton tail and back again. Once you see them nose out of the interior at your bidding what stops you from sounding every single day? All day? The shrill imagined rabbits canned terror. You can do it with a reed of grass. Cup your hands. Everything alive is listening.
I knew a hunter who could do a spot-on fawn whose suffering would bring a doe into the open every time. He didnt want a doe, though. He wanted a buck. Heres what I cant stand to acknowledge: when bucks hear the sound of the fawn my friend makes with his mouth they come, too, not in pity, but in lust, so badly they want the doe drawn by the yearning of a fawn in need of her. Everything is within range suddenly, and who am I to judge. No. No.
He takes a bullet. I was caught up in theatrics and forgot whose theater this is.
I am better than healthy. I am cooling even as the earth heats, even as it meets the sea further inland and negotiates distance from increasingly disadvantaged position. I am cooling because nothing touches me. Others may go to the petting zoo and country fair but dont even tell me what they touch there. Im taking my temperature again; my thermometer is digital and pink and its beep is my name being read from the book of life, which is available on Kindle and allows me to avoid the public library but contains peculiar punctuation errors and is transcribed by evangelists while they wait in line at gates you cant see from here. 98.5.
Still cooler than life. I have another glass of water, and feel you turning in me, my little book, flipping over and over. Its time for bed, little sow, little sow. The book of death is open on my bedside table and is called The PregnancyCountdown, and contains advice from the trenches about how to level the enemy, the body. Its time for bed, little bee, little bee. I open my window and find ten dead between the pane and the screen, which apparently has tears big enough to enter and I leave them in state in a pile and watch the wind lift their mighty wings in deathly aspiration.
It is the beginning of flu season, Rosh Hashanah. Every tear is recorded. I say tear to rhyme with the chair by my window, not tear to rhyme with the fear of God here at the Fair of God where the just leer at the milk cow and brush up against captivity and slaughter in the name of zoonosis and the vector. Nothing touches me, little scale, little scale, I will not be meted, I will not give the mosquito her share even though the blood meal is all she has to nurture her eggs and mother-to-mother I hear her flight even as shes drawn to my breath by fate and nature, which are one and as interchangeable as babies in soap operas. Dangerous angel, I will not lie down with the lamb who is contagious. I will not hear your name recalled for I have not named you and fear tempers my love of the letters of this world which are as pins through the body while the wings flail, but I will not fail to meet you when you get here with your shadow attached and your failure a promise entering the success of your first breath.
On what grounds, on what faith, dare we aspire together where Legion hears the ventilator and enters the wire?
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