Poems of Annie Blake (Part 2)

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