Space Struck Read online

  a turn as Gould. An older Gould—

  wear gloves indoors, tell me you

  can’t have lovers for fear of harming

  your elegant hands, clamber about the bed

  being the man who always almost touches

  me. Then become the man who does.

  ST. FRANCIS

  DISROBES

  When Saint Francis materialized

  in the corner of my studio apartment,

  I figured I was in for a quick

  message from the Almighty—Thou

  shalt lose weight, or Thou shalt not lie

  with thine physics professor. I thought

  that it would take an hour—two hours

  tops. On the first day, he didn’t speak,

  but held a steady rhythm of five sighs

  per minute. On the second day, he moved,

  began undoing his robe, and I

  imagined red squirrels perched upon

  high snag ribs and swallows—mouthy

  little things—skimming the fields

  of fabric around his ankles. In him,

  I expected to find where the river

  quirks, to learn how many feet

  a millipede can live without. I

  wanted to see my prayers tangled

  in his chest hairs. Or maybe I

  wanted no hair—for his body to be

  bare as tonsured scalp, but now it’s day

  thirty and his hands are still unfolding

  layers upon layers of brown wool.

  Sometimes, I look past him to watch

  infomercials, where hollow-cheeked

  women shove apples into self-

  cleaning juicers. I invite men over,

  but they spend the night asking

  questions he won’t answer, like why

  leaves in shadow appear light blue,

  why bees prefer beer cans to daisies,

  or why their wives don’t forgive them

  when they come home smelling of me?

  I often dream of him speaking, of his

  final unravel revealing a silk dress.

  A present from my father, he says,

  and as he raises his thumb to touch

  my forehead I ask, Which father?

  IN THE HANDS OF BORROWERS,

  OBJECTS ARE TWICE AS

  LIKELY TO BREAK

  I.

  Build me a house with so many rooms

  we’ll have to plan where we lie

  days in advance. Such joy in naming:

  Analemma Room, Room of Caviar

  and Unbearable Situations, Room

  Where We Spontaneously Combust.

  That’ll be my favorite, where we

  breathe in our own rising heat, where

  our water evaporates and returns

  as condensation on the windowpane.

  II.

  My ghost drops by so often

  I no longer feel obligated to offer

  it our good coffee. Halfway through

  my second mug, a roach leg surfaces

  like a rotting mast. I’m so tired,

  it says. I’m so tired and I don’t trust

  what the world is up to with its fat horses

  and its pupils sewn into place. I hear

  I love you and keep drinking.

  III.

  I’m so close to tired.

  Every man I meet dreams

  of fucking me in star-clotted fields.

  It’s selfish to want to witness awe—

  to stand in a museum and shift

  your gaze between the painting

  and your reflection in its frame.

  IV.

  More than anything, I want

  the ability to respond perfectly

  to tragedy—like when you said

  you didn’t enjoy the sound of my

  voice, I should have sung louder

  because, my little pocket of pearls,

  my God-dodging bumper crop

  of brown hair, you can’t cut off

  a piece of the sacred and not expect

  ruin: halos mutate into pipe cleaners,

  galaxies into falling matches.

  TURN ME OVER, I’M

  DONE ON THIS SIDE

  I’m almost positive I’ve got what it takes to become a saint

  because I’ve stopped breaking what I can’t afford,

  and if I look up for long enough, everyone looks up.

  Are there any lemmings that refuse to mate because they

  know that the overcrowding of their burrows and the sound

  of a thousand offspring scritching up the tunnels will

  drive them, panicked, off cliffs and into the ocean?

  Little rodent virgin saints. It’s the same with us—scientists

  in the ’70s predicted that by the year 2000 we’d be living

  off kelp. We take so much from the sea. In Italy,

  the last known sea silk weaver prays while she turns

  mollusk spit into golden thread—The sea has its own soul,

  and you have to ask permission to take a piece of it. She’s

  a saint without even wanting to be, and here I am

  stuffing plastic diamonds up my nose and waiting

  in the park for joggers to notice my light-reflecting breath.

  I believe those who believe that the greatest comedians

  are the ones who’ve suffered most. Saint Lawrence

  cracked jokes while being roasted alive. There

  were so many storms the year I turned five, I forgot what

  our windows looked like unboarded. After Hurricane Andrew,

  I watched from the porch as my brother canoed into

  a downed wire. I wonder if we name storms because

  naming is the only power we’re left with. Give me more time

  and I’m sure I could make this funny. Recently, people learned

  that prayers reach heaven fastest by balloon. The party

  stores have turned into churches, and I can’t afford

  the inflated prices. Was that a good joke? Maybe I could

  be a saint after all. I just hope I’m forgiven for the nights I

  spend on the fire escape, untying this city’s prayers

  long enough to hear the first few words. Each one

  starts the same—Make this mine, Lord. Make this mine.

  GOLDEN

  RECORD

  We know nothing about your bodies, but we want to

  teach you ours. We aren’t weak. Our skeletons

  are built to stand even when certain parts break

  or go missing. And while most of us are born

  with collarbones, there are some who aren’t—

  in the ’80s they made a living rescuing children

  from wells. On this planet, you have

  to be useful to be kept around. Our interests include improving

  the aesthetic appeal of practical tools—

  cat-eared umbrellas, musical toilets, red bridges.

  Our main turnoff is nature, though we find ways

  around it. For instance, with the right mix

  of chemicals and a lot of patience, we can change

  a chicken egg into a single-use camera. How advanced

  are you? We’re not looking to move backward—

  even our primal yelps crawl up the throat

  and out the mouth—but we’re known to be flexible

  in tight situations, we’re known to be honest

  when desperate, and honestly,

  we’re right here, if you like what you see.

  CHAPEL OF THE

  GREEN LORD

  This spring, the smog is so thick

  I can’t see the stars, which means

  there aren’t any stars left. It’s pointless

  to argue against this, to say,

  no they’re on vacation, no

  they’ll come back with new summer

&
nbsp; hats and an answer

  to my question: If this world

  is a plucked violin string, am I part

  of its sound or its stillness?

  Once, I woke and believed myself full

  of the old heaven. I wanted to trap it,

  make it stay. I swallowed

  a hive’s worth of honey, and—

  and still, no stars. This smog

  is thick enough to turn my lungs gummy.

  I stay inside, line my bed

  with spider plants and succulents,

  christen it Chapel of the Green Lord,

  and go to sleep with the sheets pulled up

  over my sticky mouth.

  DIORAMA OF

  GHOSTS

  i spent years living with ghosts

  strung between my teeth

  Like corn silk?

  like ghosts

  How did they get there?

  good hygiene or poor

  taste

  perhaps a blend

  Why keep them?

  i was so sad

  i would have harbored

  anything

  Have you earned the right

  to say sad?

  i dont want to

  talk about that

  When did they leave?

  all at once

  …

  they cannonballed

  right into a punch bowl

  and ruined my best

  shirt

  Do you know why they left?

  when the dust is swept

  the broom is stored

  behind the door again

  Do you miss them?

  they made me the delicate

  gulper i am today

  But do you miss them?

  the mention

  of silence

  I don’t understand.

  worse

  than the silence itself

  SPACE

  STRUCK

  Ann Hodges, the first confirmed meteorite victim

  I remember the doctor lifting my nightgown

  to see how high the bruise climbed. He seemed

  disappointed—A thinner woman would’ve died. I was

  small when I was young. Didn’t take up much space.

  In fact, I could fit all of me in a suitcase until I

  was sixteen, and maybe I was dreaming of this

  when the stone hit and I woke to light streaming

  through the ceiling. I think I thought it was God,

  since I’d been told it’s painful to bear witness.

  At any rate, it was a blessing to my husband,

  who pretends the bruise is still there. At night,

  he lifts my nightgown and kneads my thigh.

  He says, How deep, like he’s reaching into a galaxy.

  He says, How full, and looks up to see if I wince.

  III

  YOU CAN TAKE OFF YOUR SWEATER,

  I’VE MADE TODAY WARM

  Sit on the park bench and chew this mint leaf.

  Right now, way above your head, two men

  floating in a rocket ship are ignoring their

  delicate experiments, their buttons flashing

  red. Watching you chew your mint, the men

  forget about their gritty toothpaste, about

  their fingers, numb from lack of gravity.

  They see you and, for the first time since

  liftoff, think home. When they were boys

  they were gentle. And smart. One could

  tie string around a fly without cinching it

  in half. One wrote tales of sailors who

  drowned after mistaking the backs of

  whales for islands. Does it matter which

  man is which? They just quit their mission

  for you. They’re on their way down. You’ll

  take both men—a winter husband, and

  a summer husband. Does it matter which

  is—don’t slump like that. Get up, we have

  so much work to do before— wait you’re going

  the wrong way small whelp of a woman! this is not

  how we behave where are you going

  this world is already willing

  to give you anything do you want to know Latin

  okay now everyone

  here knows Latin want inflatable deer

  deer! I promise the winter/

  summer children will barely hurt dear I’m hurt

  that you would ever think

  i don’t glisten to you i’m always glistening

  tame your voice and turn around

  the men are coming they’ve traded everything for you

  the gemmy starlight

  the click click click

  of the universe expanding

  stop

  aren’t you known aren’t you

  known here

  how can you be certain that anywhere else will provide

  more pears than you could ever eat

  remember the sweet rot of it all

  come back you forgot your sweater

  what if there’s nothing there when you—

  you don’t have your

  sweater

  what if it’s cold

  I’VE BEEN TRYING TO FEEL

  BAD FOR EVERYONE

  I’m learning that a miracle isn’t a miracle

  without sacrifice, because when the birds

  brought manna, we ate the birds. I’m learning

  that we forgive those we know the least,

  like when my brother had another episode

  and stabbed his wife, I said to my beloved,

  disorder, genetic, and he never yelled at me

  again. Lord, teach me patience, for every fruit

  I’ve ever picked has been unripe. Teach trust

  that reaches past an opened and unwatched

  purse. Lord, I’ve seen painted depictions

  of an infant Christ winding toy helicopters.

  I know it isn’t always about suffering, so send

  us a good flood. Deliver a nectar that will soften

  fists and lift these red stains from our doorframes.

  THE RIVER REFLECTS

  NOTHING

  This morning I watched a neighborhood

  boy throw his model plane into the air

  with his right hand and shoot it down

  with the garden hose in his left. My

  hands were never that quick. When

  my mother lived by the river, I lived

  by the river. I knelt over it with legs red