Poems of Annie Blake (Part 2)

Vernissage by Alexander Reznichenko

I FELL INTO HER VOICE

for frank and johnny

is singing     i am washing in the plum
 of her lavender soap  in the basin of her waves   
 torn in two like the veil in the temple   
 when i’m on the sea   o sea   our men are staring
 on their decks    of hearts         of war         his fingers
 won’t stop stuttering from his wrist   
 he uses the other hand to cover them   
 he’s angry he cannot forget    his mother    his wife   
 her child

i pull down masks from heaven    sugar white strings 
my dress      home-made smocking over my chest 
preparing them white with cauliflower       that the priest blesses ash 
to  like a doctor’s bird mask during the plague 
breathing in dried roses and carnations     she

is a woman    there is not enough food for her body 
her son is in the bone hips of her ship
he is in her kitchen    in white gaunt clothes    in a high
infant chair she ties his arms to his mouth 
she hasn’t washed his hair in weeks  she had enough 
because she was too young    to open out

mothers should explain this to their daughters 
when they are too young        instead of folding church
bulletins to make fans         to listen to her song until the sea
wears out my apron strings     poke out glass eyes of masks 
and learn to palpate ballerina ribbon and lemon rope 
of long lark eyelashes         their straightjackets

our men

THE SCHOOL HOUSE

when i hear a soft song played on the piano      the music opens in me like the bud
 of a microphone    makes the torment of the everyday palpable the uterus and the female
 reproductive organ are not made of rubber pipes and metal car parts the boy i liked wore 
 blue eyeliner and when he warmed my back with his hands he cut off his yellow curls

i often take my children to the theatre through a cave  we stand on the very top   our 
eyes erect walls every time they shut   i show them   acting puppets
where the electrical lights and colors are shooting from i tell them we all get to watch 
when we are tired we want to sit cross-legged with the class on the mat
he gives me his frustrations in my bed   moses only lived after he turned himself in  a 
basket the patriarchy demands the permanency of marrying the young

the boy shows me moldy cheese     he wants me to check it   i say expiry dates
need to be written down and nutritional information should be more explicit  i often find
myself swimming under a ceiling of scraps of paper   newspapers are heavy   when i park
my car for too long because i hear soft music coming from the inside  i get so many fines

my child asks to drink orange cordial    two cups for a dollar   sometimes she knows me
better than i know myself  for instead of worrying so much about our teeth and bodies
she teaches me about what orange means and with whom    and how generative and safe
my voice has to sound    i lower the higher steps     unsew epaulets off my shoulders
to make even ground      change my name from sarai to sarah  stop living in playhouses

i saw a wave coming i let it take me up and as it raised me from the dead i could see 
the sun opening all my school house windows                               the shore
 

THE CROSS

for frank

trunnels on the cross   trees   their undressed branches
congenital deformities   their hands are spiders that walk on wind
venomous meats   nests in the dark   my webs

there is a perverted pleasure that pervades the dark    when winter
is high and a howling of winds   comes to haunt me like men

when i talk i feel like someone is echoing me
and because their voice reverberates i am never heard

if you stare inside   definition   stars to come
and then the glints off edges
of the wood of my rocking chair

the man’s torso deconstructs into blue splashes of paint
his shoulders in particular   there is enough air now
to circulate around bones

my kids buy superhero costumes   they are still in packs
potpourri reminds me of when i was a new wife
how i scented all the rooms    putrescere   oud oil
from agarwood    the infection of aquilaria trees

the walls and windows lift off from the floor   the skirting
sinks into the ground
i have a habit of skirting around things
i try to climb a mountain but i wear a tight dress

the perimeters of walls are hovering in the air
like a helicopter without a heart   of its wings
its rotor blade unwebbing the mistrust it has in the winds

in the man who tells me he doesn’t understand but still loves me
the doors fling open                        i don’t see a ceiling

his face old   thin and pink                         fledgling