Sealey - Ordinary beast: poems

Rendering poetry in a digital format presents several challenges, just as its many forms continue to challenge the conventions of print. In print, however, a poem takes place within the static confines of a page, hewing as close as possible to the poets intent, whether its Walt Whitmans lines stretching to the margin like Route 66, or Robert Creeleys lines descending the page like a string tie. The printed poem has a physical shape, one defined by the negative space that surrounds ita space that is crafted by the broken lines of the poem. The line, as vital a formal and critical component of the form of a poem as metaphor, creates rhythm, timing, proportion, drama, meaning, tension, and so on. Reading poetry on a small device will not always deliver line breaks as the poet intendedwith the pressure the horizontal line brings to a poem, rather than the completion of the grammatical unit. The line, intended as a formal and critical component of the form of the poem, has been corrupted by breaking it where it was not meant to break, interrupting a number of important elements of the poetic structurerhythm, timing, proportion, drama, meaning, and so on.

Its a little like a tightrope walker running out of rope before reaching the other side. There are limits to what can be done with long lines on digital screens. At some point, a line must break. If it has to break more than once or twice, it is no longer a poetic line, with the integrity that lineation demands. On smaller devices with enlarged type, a line break may not appear where its author intended, interrupting the unit of the line and its importance in the poems structure. We attempt to accommodate long lines with a hanging indentsimilar in fashion to the way Whitmans lines were treated in books whose margins could not honor his discursive length.

On your screen, a long line will break according to the space available, with the remainder of the line wrapping at an indent. This allows readers to retain control over the appearance of text on any device, while also indicating where the author intended the line to break. This may not be a perfect solution, as some readers initially may be confused. We have to accept, however, that we are creating poetry e-books in a world that is imperfect for themand we understand that to some degree the line may be compromised. Despite this, weve attempted to protect the integrity of the line, thus allowing readers of poetry to travel fully stocked with the poetry that needs to be with them. Dan Halpern, Publisher for my parentsfor Johnfor youfor always.

1. the first person who will live to be one hundred
   and fifty years old has already been born

Ive had sex with a man whos had sex with men. I cant sleep. My mother has, my mothers mother had, asthma. My father had a stroke. My fathers mother has high blood pressure. I drink. I drink.

I dont smoke. Xanax for flying. Propranolol for anxiety. My eyes are bad. Im spooked by wind. Cousin Lilly died from an aneurysm.

Aunt Hilda, a heart attack. Uncle Ken, wise as he was, was hit by a car as if to disprove whatever theory toward which I write. And, I understand, the stars in the sky are already dead. You hear the high-pitched yowls of strays fighting for scraps tossed from a kitchen window. They sound like children you might have had. Had you wanted children.

Had you a maternal bone, you would wrench it from your belly and fling it from your fire escape. As if it were the stubborn shard now lodged in your wrist. No, you would hide it. Yes, you would hide it inside a barren nesting doll youve had since you were a child. Its smile reminds you of your father, who does not smile. Nor does he believe you are his.

You look just like your mother, he says, who looks just like a fire of suspicious origin. A body, Ive read, can sustain its own sick burning, its own hell, for hours. Its the mind. Its the mind that cannot. Had I not brought with me my mind as it has been made, this thing, this brood of mannequins, cocooned and mounted on a wooden scaffold, might be eight infants swaddled and sleeping. Might be eight fleshy fingers on one hand.

Might be a family tree with eight pictured frames. Such treaties occur in the brain. Can you see them hanging? Their shadow is a crowd stripping the tree of souvenirs. Skin shrinks and splits. The bodies weep fat the color of yolk. as wisteria would a trellis. burning? Their perfume climbing fat the color of yolk. burning? Their perfume climbing fat the color of yolk.

Can you smell them Skin shrinks and splits. The bodies weep is a crowd stripping the tree of souvenirs. Can you see them hanging? Their shadow frames. Such treaties occur in the brain. Might be a family tree with eight pictured Might be eight fleshy fingers on one hand. and mounted on a wooden scaffold, this brood of mannequins, cocooned as it has been made, this thing, Had I not brought with me my mind Who can see this and not see lynchings? When I hear news of a hitchhiker struck by lightning yet living, or a child lifting a two-ton sedan to free his father pinned underneath, or a camper fighting off a grizzly with her bare hands until someone, a hunter perhaps, can shoot it dead, my thoughts turn to black people the hysterical strength we must possess to survive our very existence, which I fear many believe is, and treat as, itself a freak occurrence. Id like to be a spoiled rich white girl. VENUS XTRAVAGANZA I want to be married in church. In white. In white.

Nothing borrowed or blue. I want a white house in Peekskill, far from the citywhite picket fence fencing in my lily-white lilies. O, were I whiter than white. A couple kids: one girl, one boy. Both white. Birthright.

All the amenities of white: golf courses, guesthouses, garage with white washer/dryer set. Whatever else white affords, I want. In multiples of white. Two of nothing is something, if theyre white. Never mind another neutral. Off-white wont do.

What Id like is to be white as the unsparing light at tunnels end. Im waiting for a white woman in this overpriced Equinox to mistake me for someone other than a paying member. I can see it now as I leave the steam room (naked but for my wedding ring?) shell ask whether Ive finished cleaning it. Every time Im at an airport I see a bird flying around inside, so fast I cant make out its wings. I ask myself what is it doing here? Ive come to answer: what is any of us? . . . . . .

What was I saying? Oh, yes. I dont mean to be a bother, to burden you with questions. But did you know I wouldnt last? That I would lose? Had you asked, I couldve told you Im not doing especially well at being alive. the first person who will live
to be one hundred and fifty years
old has already been born [FOR PETRA] Scientists say the average human life gets three months longer every year. By this math, death will be optional. Like a tie or dessert or suffering.

My mother asks whether Id want to live forever. Id get bored, I tell her. But, she says, theres so much to do, meaning she believes theres much she hasnt done. Thirty years ago she was the age I am now but, unlike me, too industrious to think about birds disappeared by rain. If only we had more time or enough money to be kept on ice until such a time science could bring us back. Of late my mother has begun to think life short-lived.

Im too young to convince her otherwise. The one and only occasion I was in the same room as the Mona Lisa, it was encased in glass behind what I imagine were velvet ropes. Theres far less between ourselves and oblivionskin that often defeats its very purpose. Or maybe its purpose isnt protection at all, but rather to provide a place, similar to a doctors waiting room, in which to sit until our names are called. Hold your questions until the end. Mother, measure my wide-open arms we still have