Also in this issue:
Melissa’s interview with EleniSikilianos
review of Roubaud’s Exchanges on Light
_______
Melissa’s poetry and images in a previous issue
_______
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Gratefulacknowledgment is made to the following publications forpoems that originally appeared in them.
TheDrunken Boat: “Fourth Wall As SpatialDesign for Lovers,” “Locus of Motion”
LaurelMoon: “Fourth Wall As Spatial Designfor Lovers,” “Retablo in OneGesture”
SonoraReview:“White Hot Belly”
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“On the way to Patagonia 2007” photo of Melissa Buckheitby Rebecca Seiferle 2007
“Upside Down ” by Bekka Teerlink 2000
For Olga
For Jim
And for Becky
C ON T E N T S
FourthWall as Spatial Design For Lovers
With Agrimony
Married
A Few Revenge Stories
Angels’ Boxes
Les fruits du matin
Simulacra
Going Out of the Gate
Monodic
Locus of Motion
Retablo in One Gesture
She May Be a Lover, MayNot
Always One Direction
White Hot Belly
Saturday
Notes
Sprig then when stronger leaf
I lie all night with her
I live where she is many
committing cleanness
the chosen chemical suffusing the harm
to the end of helping city
I’m on the side of I spread myself around
I look forward to it
I get on my knees
~Olga Broumas & T Begley
you’remixing paints for the new voltageof the body Howmuch can you charge her before she ripsoff into the night greenon blue red on orange thedifference pigment,one teaspoon of sun jammeddown the throat of a passer-by willnot save us. Theplexiglas is a shield between you & the nude herbreasts pucker as she falls asleep inthe declining day sprawledon the carpet, her mostintimate sleep in your gaze. Youhave to wake her toarrange the limbs again, frozen anddrowsy slightlyoverweight sheis as your mother would have been ifshe had been someone else amodel a woman not a wife. Youcircle the house on a wish from how many directions canyou invent her, firestorm in the distance nuggetsof rock break the sky into its elements bluefrom yellow ourbodies from what it takes us to getthere. Thepaint feels wet through the glass it’syou alone in a room in the lessening light suspendedin her heat, adouble image no face but hair likea talisman for the wrong gender. I wassunbathing on the rockface whenI said I liked you it’seasier to cross, withour other bodies, here, performingthe functional tasks, eating sleeping,speaking in each other’s ears, ambulation. Anice walk is profoundly calming 6a.m., the sun charges you a chemical bath 2parts your palette hums inits beauty. Otherwisewe are caustic we areplanning ourselves inshy light thepaint covers your body charcoal on your forearms asyou throw yourself against the paper wouldn’tit be funny to mark yourself toa plane where a woman ownsher sexual organs? Whereyou fly your own body out asthe nude blissed and in terror Iwatch mybreath regulating the air traveling in even waves adaily swap with yoga ina chair inthe yard whocan say inwhich direction we will turn. Inessence what I meant was: myelbow inthe late-night hours our soreness and thisbeautiful pump of greymusic, sheet pilot andsocket. Our bite, raccoon in the garbage mussing up last night’s supper sharp and stinging where moist between the toes. Whenyou wrote paws theywere children’s paws sending my spine measured against your arm eking out years inour memory. Even tomorrow Iam causing sand in the belly caressof sea, drownablename for aharness told by simple lines of blue and grey, asthe curve of hip and ear andchin tells me whereI am andam not boundfor you. Only last night March snow asurprise by morning, I wake flustered because I cannot tell where the heat leaves and enters through which mouth, which hole the yellow daffodils bathed inwhite, the salt on your lip left for me a frieze for the reclusive tongue, or this body, she our shaking sembling one caught in the small of young cow where any direction sleeps our motion andgives. shallow from sun awhole day’’s work is us sitting here sharp &hungry, tossed fromthe speakable ghettos North America, yellow torso molting off of privacy defies as noanimal be subject orsuspect to fame one or both of my hands as they catch your face fromwhere we picked up the train, 4:30 Thursday afternoon last week yourbirthing thick over my back starsof blood like cakes soaking the sky myeyes sliding back ahah cakeof blood, little baby perineum andhair burning weare dirt, pretty dirt and shit, my pretty— lastweek, Thursday afternoon your hair inmy mouth, liquid sun and cunt onesecond, two, lost weburn our lens with exposure between 12:30 and tricklesof the rain, a torso of rain colliding at 60 mph intomy face. That is love. Thursdayafternoon we slept like pirates littlepaper hats Thursdayafternoon the sun, the moon tigersin giant hoops, sea salt andbeach roses and hibiscus nearthe shore: tender, sharp, bitter all circus rodeus, rode us, such hounds 4:30(last) my aunt was raped bythe newspaper boy around the corner asa girl (last) (last week,time) last Thursday upwith the boys in the hydraulic helicopter piercingthe heavens alltheir pretty bones in the sand temperaturea cool 50 degrees, and breezy epaulets,revenge stories, she was mine,mine, mine: Shut the fuck up! weall want babies, little torches lightingthe sky, who told youyour blood smelled of / was the ruins of Rome lastweek we were on the train fuzzylittle desert halos myhand kept you tight inside weate tuna salad on wheat mybaby girl, my blue wewere flying! eventoday and when they split us theknife splitting the torso thorax bilaterallyat 60 mph offthe end of a cliff, off jewel of blood intwo, theintestines will spill to the dirt, theywill take what they want and tack us tothe wall, and I will tackyou to the wall, my pretty hands you knew so well underthe sun, the sun wewill be animal meat like theyalways knew thanthe sum of our necessary acts,geraniums potted in the noonday sun nearthe office plaza arecheery and fat. Iwant my voice to be loud. Inthe dream, the image wasa giant eye anda bull superimposed likeSunday Mass: the priest breaks the bread, gives it to hisdisciples (all men) andsays, says Iwant my voice to be loud! Thebull was knifed and quartered but its eyes were alive whispering you know when I will eat you Openwide baby standingon the corner of Wilshire and Miracle: always a corner noone was listening thegeraniums and I wereboth wearing white Theimage was the museum curator yelling Shut the fuckup! fuckinggirls and young bitches and your wedding thenight I drank too much red wine andate pot brownies broughtyour body like a mirage notmy woman Thenecessary act was marriage fighting off anemia, brainseizures mother said you had married the techie sick on sex butyou wanted me to help, said wherewere you when, why did you miss it sweetheart wewill be fucking in a year where was yourpretty blue dress? Timeis a more or less the sum thesum mygirlfriend laughed hidingthe grocery bill underneaththe sheets heavyblood cycle last month hungryfor nothing and dryand clean Inthe dream, the bull had no faces. Iwas the moon blackbefore all eyes Iwas the harshest love immediate torn redder thanthe lake we grew from theland spare and treeless thewater so red, rich I could not tell our skins apart. Thelions were warm and golden weslept inside their furs becomingthe dream of molded paws, female, sexual, high on eyes addicted Baby, we werescared. Whenshe came around, the moon Whenshe came around we would go tothe corner store to buy food Whenshe came / around I became the dream in breasts and nothing fruitpicked by hand we ate pulpand seeds and red all overour jeans messy Wewere hungry in the sun people stared notrealizing a woman can be hungry co-opted bynothing, no one with your biting my lip June-bugsin the cold of snow-halos you said oneday of this, yes Iwas uncomfortable, I was happy Ididn’t recognize myself anymore onemirror across thefogged and white field Iwas spark from you ourcamera froze thehesitance of snow sheerlight as energy ablack field with only my face reflected— asource, the moon in negative oneday for itself we said because there was no sight because they said there was nochance— One of several known species ofbird who frequent the Pacific coast, migratory lemons peeled forafternoon, bitter mint and the rinds dropped in a pail by the door small, white teeth easily parched in cloth under pillow diagrams,grids, diastole heart merging the endangered swallow, its delicate eggs visceraleet immobile aroundmy waist and I like it red haunches pale apparition of skirt we collide as if arabbit we stole from the pot deep brown velvet feet un seul you take dansta bouche Inside the lid isthe mark thehand raised above flesh doesnot return cold rain, children not shocked by our kiss among the crowds holding hands Iremember how it was to touch, tobe touched. WhenI fucked her itwas easy myhand sort of slipped through the sheets likea small fish on a mission toget back to the eternal sea— untilmy hand stopped, my body rocked forward & I woke up. Itwas easy I said Itwas easy we said andthen we separated andrejoined and separated withoutvigor or notice andthen after a while I couldn’t call her onthe phone becauseit was too much not to fuck whenwe met orrather have a good long conversation over lunch ortea, a hot liquid, soothing which gives pleasure to the eye asgiving from tongue does &receiving if lucky theslight shudder in time ofskull swiveling, hair picked up by a force of wind. Likeon the train, allthe people packed in lines, shoulder to shoulder feetperched on rests crammingfor a view out the dirty window aharsh skyline of sand dunes & western sun &no one can bear to look at each other. Ifshe were my lover sitting next to me this second Somehowthere is not enough air— atnight the bodies float,horizontal such asover water witha given touch andthe cars speed over the rails with force andwe are all sure we will get to where ever we aresupposed to go. Ionly recognized her braids at my door, surroundedby orange trumpet flowers and night hummingbirds. Everyday after, a slight wind picked up, aball of sand and plant debris speedingin the parking lot againstfriendly cars, whichwe watched & thus were unable to leave the house. Firstit was the bedroom, outof a sense of privacy, thenthe bed. Itwas easier to fuck whenwe imagined another beside us notour lover— agift with Rebekah Ifirst saw her soalive almost fell over allthe little hairs tamingthe skull somarecycled like cloth mosaic-fieldedskin sun-made thetheater of waist performing sweetheartcome-out-of sand falleninto disuse andburnt slicein her room shoeswith dresswith buttons wrinkledby heat reverse-shadowbraid hidinga mirror yourhands clutch the reverse-shadowbird Isuch Iput the story under the mattress safetydeposit forus until deaths toheart our possession youstop and stand in the middle of rockshit with hammer streetbloody hands and scream the same red earth fingersacross polished by rain all night lonelyto dream— Ifell in the earth, my heels clung to thepine bloody— our eyes combine behindwhite gravestones no water no water in the body, it has left Moon over the graying clouds. My wife and I watched the water for the better part of an hour. So she turned and left upshore where the stones were whiter for her shoes, and I sat facing the gray the trees were absent from us. No daylight. We walked to the pier, and my wife without the touch of her hair—honey or the salt followed the double-boarded fence of rotting wood marking the line of the coast by foot her braids spotted a destination many years ahead, a small sway shorter since she sheared them. The sand and black-speckled silt held usnear the water I couldn’t keep my hands from the rain that came later meeting the waves and she spoke harshly behind me, my ear from across the land, my wife thatwe could not know when the tide would come in that we must not wait— She swung toward the car miles offin the white barefoot and I left her, the sea, as wind picked hair up from my eyes I turned to go. Iam a man in gray loafers ifI lean with legs open and joke Inlet of the clavicle watches as she turns, smacks my mother through a plate-glass window Who do you look like,my beloved asks? thehundred lives we are meant to live andcan’t won’tforgive the moment of death evenin elation the gauzewrinkles up against the chin, theskull sways, a clear grip from behind. Wrapme in a clean ball and dropme in the hole. Myhair parted evenly mylimbs symmetrical in the box, we are satisfied leaptfrom the carriage of a thick-bellied plane onemore language embraced by gravity, blownthe hell out of here. Brains, skin & meat did I say you could roll back like eyes Ihave no memory of who she was andher lover jammed on the bed fucking (tenderly) alast time, back to mouth, and she neverturning to see the face, as shecame, of the womanwho held her. Therewas hand and swell— Therewas dog like an animal dog uglyass and shine deadbones underthe glow of a pink bulb slow shudderingof tears the sea, I could havepushed her into, ormyself sea withoutcircuit always onedirection wherethe sand pulls out a deep caress to thesoles, sleepy, wecould become— never have tosee each other again. Luminousand backed into in a cotton unbuttoned shift where thehorizon has hairy legs Canyon de Chelly law of Westonabstracting the thigh dunesthirty miles out of the Sonora Basin iris-edged,steamed or Weston abstracting thedunes I had taken off mysandals curiousabout damage of rotaries to the physical soul my lover’s radiating history hair a flag out the window tosenators, chickens, early white density andwhat if I don’t want wantingyou Inyour film my head is 4 x 8 hippocampusterrorizing a shadow a green plant good at swallowing flesh every time you brush behindme the camera clicks galactic circumference admitting to wantingto fuck you neveragain again thislight, this smoke each night we slept in starts up a sparrow, my love weare nailedup like sheep. collars up around our ears stroll one fedora in hand NOTES “FourthWall As Spatial Design for Lovers” Withdebt and gratitude to Barbara Cully’s book, The New Intimacy, and JaneMiller’s book, American Odalisque, which influenced this poem. “WithAgrimony” Agrimony: Plant ofthe genus Euphatoria. Earlier root from agrimonia, a misreading of L. argemonia and Gr. argemone, a poppy. Argemon is also awhite spot on the eye which impairs vision by leaving a blank spot in thevisual field. The plant itself was reputed in ancient times to cure thiscondition. Also related to arges, argos, white, shining. “AFew Revenge Stories” Exposure: Refers to the common practice of female infanticideor exposure, in ancient Rome, where undesirable or female babies wereabandoned in the hills and left to die in the sun; also to photography and thesun in general. weall want babies . . .was the ruins of Rome:Refers to Herod’s decree in the New Testament that all Jewish male babies bornthat spring should be slaughtered. The Roman soldiers who carried out the taskoften took to the sport of skewering an infant on their spear, and lighting iton fire to kill it. theknife splitting the torso: The mostcommon punishment for treason to one’s clan or tribal government in what wasMedieval Scotland and Ireland, was disembowlment, specifically slicing thevictim from the jugular to the beginning of the pelvis, spilling theintestines. Milagro:A folk art form commonly found in theSouthwest & Mexico, often at roadside altars to the Virgin Mary or lostloved ones. Most common in homes, milagros are tin plaques which have been engraved or pin-hammered, usuallydepicting a body part, a natural phenomenon, or a desired object. Colloquially milagro means wish or a prayer for something desired. Forexample, a milagro depicting rainwould ask for rain to fall in a dry season. breaksthe bread: Eucharist or the thin waferbelieved to be the body of Christ, given at communion during Catholic Mass. “Lesfruits du matin” Lesfruits du matin: Morning’s fruit. visceraleet immobile: Viscerale and immobile. unseul you take dans ta bouche: One or a single one you take into your mouth. “Simulacra” Thelatin plural of simulacrum, commonin English meaning an image or an image emanating to or from the eye. “GoingOut of the Gate” Titleis from a line from the I Ching 60/Limitation; “Therefore the superior woman is careful to maintain silence anddoes not go forth/ Not going out of the gate and courtyard/ Brings misfortune.” “Monodic” Ode sung by a single voice in Greek tragedy, amournful song, the importance being placed on the status of the singer beingalone. The monodic was a form innovated by Sappho in her poetry. Thispoem’s form and syntax are influenced by Sappho’s Gymnasium by Olga Broumas & T Begley. This poem wascollaborative, written and arranged by myself and Rebekah Wright, usingfragments of both our work. “Retablo inOne Gesture” Retablo: In Spanish, altar or table, usually with amonochromic single wall. Also an art form, retablo depicts a simple imageagainst a flat background. Mywife and I sat . . .for the better part of an hour: Lines 2 & 3 are a misprision of My wife and Isat and watched it for the better part of an hour; ShorelineSeries, Barbara Cully. “She MayBe a Lover, May Not” Title from “Who CaresAbout Aperture”; And Her Soul Out of Nothing, Olena Kalytiak Davis. “AlwaysOne Direction” Brains, skin & meat: Misprision of AnneWaldman’s poem title, “skin, Meat, BONES”. “WhiteHot Belly” Title inspired by Jane Miller’s title “Lost WhiteBrother,” American Odalisque. Canyon de Chelly: A canyon in a national park inArizona. Weston: Edward Weston, American photographer, one ofAlfred Stieglitz’s contemporaries and instrumental in the Photosecessionmovement. A plant good at swallowing flesh: Venus Flytrap
Outside the yard
Paint-bowl
I:Exposure
Endless, endless the dust sea
II:Milagro
In an image or a dream
Time is more
I want my voice to be loud! I said
III:Return
February was fierce
In my other life
I don’t know if I would recognize her braids.
Sleepy hand
making water in the desert
your hand
inside me
whom you havespoken for
If I could I would walk right out of here
my sweetie and I godown
low over thewhole
city take our cups
dip them all 12 nights of rain
Melissa Buckheit is a poet, dancer/choreographer and photographer. Her poems, photography and other writing have appeared or are forthcoming in nth position, Blue Fifth Review, The Drunken Boat, Bombay Gin, Laurel Moon, and Sonora Review, among others. Her manuscript, On the Back of the Animal Is the Mouth of the Vase, has been a finalist for the Backwaters Press First Book Prize and the Brittingham/Felix Pollack Prizes, as well as a semi-finalist for the Elixir Press Poetry Award. She is a recipient of the American Poets Honorary Prize, a 2007 Tucson-Pima Arts Council grant in Dance and her poem “As If I Were Conceived in Her Diorama,” published in Blue Fifth Review, was nominated for a 2007 Pushcart Prize. She translates from Modern Greek and into French, and holds an M.F.A. in Poetry from Naropa University and a B.A. in English & American Literature/Creative Writing and Dance/Theatre from Brandeis University . She has taught Creative Writing and Modern Dance at the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum and currently teaches Literature, Writing and Creative Writing at Pima Community College and in private workshop. She also works as a domestic violence crisis advocate for the Brewster Center and teaches dance through Zuzi Dance Company. Melissa has studied Modern Dance, Ballet/Pointe, Aerial Trapeze and Mind-Body Centering, dancing and performing her original choreography in Boston, Boulder and Tucson, as a member of Brandeis Dance Collective, with Zuzi Dance Company and through New Articulations Dance Theatre. Recent work includes, Maitri with Karen Reim, Dos Bracos with Maria Villa, Narrative and when it is night, an island, performed last fall at Brandeis University.
