Tucker - Bonsai love: poems
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- Book:Bonsai love: poems
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- Publisher:Harbour Publishing
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- Year:2014
- City:Madeira Park;British Columbia
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harbour publishing Copyright 2014 Diane Tucker All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission of the publisher or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright, .
Harbour Publishing Co. Ltd. P.O. Ltd. Ltd.
Cover design by Carleton Wilson Text design by Mary White
Harbour Publishing acknowledges financial support from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
I fear to love you, Sweet, because Loves the ambassador of loss. Francis Thompson
A big sheepish sort of creature rubs against you then, and so against me, both of us poked, both nudged for a name or for its absence, not even this beast wanting words right now, no word to slip like a waxy leaf between it and its beginning. Your hand still spread-eagled along my length, they dawn on you, dawn in you: hunger and thirst. So I help hold you in and up all the way to the water and the fruit; I hang there, stretched piece of your hearts bone-basket, spine-sconced white hook, marrow-cored blood coffer cuddling a lung in the dark. When, that night, you lay down to sleep, theres an insomniac hour. A sensation well later, together, name pain licks your side. Brand new, it keeps you awake but somehow isnt unpleasant yet.
You press your hand against the place that seems to pulse the strange feeling. Pain, unfallen, is your body making ready. You become sure of this. You careen toward sleep curled around the place, both hands clutching it. Something is going to happen, you think, when the sun burns and I make words again for the creatures. Perhaps (your last waking thought) Ill hear the sound of my own name spoken at last by one of these wandering beasts?
These ones three times the size of the rats, their Louisiana hearts big enough, their veins and valve connections more visible. On each frogs belly, cuts had been made that opened its torso like a book, front cover and back, and its story was all there on one deep page. We read it from beginning to end, the blood chapter, anyway (though all their blood had been poured out to keep the lab clean, dissectors hands unstained). In the labs remaining minutes we could read whatever else of the frog we wanted; so we read the food chapter, our scalpels tracing slits across each beasties tightly packed stomach, and there (book within a book!) curled a crayfish bigger than a big mans thumb, its many legs and eyes on stalks perfectly preserved as well, swallowed but not a jot digested. Poor bullfrog (or not, his last moments spent snagging and slurping down this fine crustacean filet), guts up on the lab bench, his elegantly curved chin a dead, shiny grey in the flat classroom light. What would we, the dissectors, divulge from our dark body cavities if you got us pinned to that waxen slab? What would you find stuffed in our nineteen-year-old guts? The last things we took in before they got us, I imagine: swollen, overworked hearts, fresh as the night we snapped them shut inside us; arms and legs that held us close; spines of jelly; larynxes choked with the unsaid and the unrepeatable.
What crazy school let us (eyes staring, tongues dry and graceless, lips bruised with backroom kissing, brains red and puddled in our anxious pants) peek into the books of the soft and harmless with handfuls of small sharp objects?
You jumped down, held me as I jumped and then kept holding. Autumn was our first season. Always outside, you in your jacket, thick and green as laurel leaves, me in my old black coat, soft and wide as a fat mans evening shadow. We leaned into each others outerwear. But heres where the fine crack runs up memorys wall: that black coat, the best coat Ive ever had, I didnt own that coat for at least another year. Or did I? How I hate this shuffling of the deck: I can be sure of so much less when I remember.
Months and years are amputated and sewn bloodily onto the wrong stumps: all this past must be a sort of butchered freak, all its parts in attendance but disordered, like Brueghels passel of limb-warped beggars, low to the ground and limping. So, I apologize. I remember myself only as I wish Id been. That black coat made me an agile city cat. It made me knowing and complete. I think it was made of cartoon portable hole: whenever I put it on, whoever touched it would disappear inside me, be held in me forever.
That must be what I wanted from you: to have you closer than mere Student Union would allow. To be filled with your whole forest-green self, your autumn-chill eyes, your dark hair folded across your high forehead in a heavy, quivering wing.
Eye to eye, speaking softly over the rising steam, hearts are given and taken with a word, palms around warm cups. Nothing fills every cranny like this shared meal: bread torn and passed along; wine from the common cup. True love is a transplant. It slices us open and replaces vital organs. Dare we drain this cup? Long before starvation, thirst will have killed you.
All the parts work but there is no sum of them to be greater than. A Rube Goldberg, a useless cartoon contraption. Dont ask what the machine produces: noise, movement, the occasional pleasant spark. The night sky is a layer of wet earth on me. Rain: solid grains of chilled air. The street is a long tunnel.
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