the one who
rode it, rider on a mount, the one who had
a name and spoke. It lies on the rocks in its
camouflage, canteen at its belt,
probably still holding water,
and it can’t do anything, it can’t even
get at the water, they will put it in a pit,
cover it over, it will never feel
that vivid one
wake in it.
PART TWO : The Cannery
The Cannery, 1942–1945
When we’d visit it, down the street,
in the grammar school, I was so young
I sat on my mother’s forearm, and gazed at the
stainless retort where the cylinders
of tinned iron and sheet metal,
hermetically sealed, glided, at a slant,
like a column of soldered soldiers, single-
file, down along the slatted chrome
ramp from the flame-sterilizers
in the requisitioned lunchroom. The woman
who ran that home-front cannery was
shorter than I from my perch, she was heavy, she had
short hair, and she moved with purpose,
there in her war-effort kitchen. I thought she had
invented the machine, and owned it, down would
soar, shoulder to shoulder, the ranks of
rations, as if we could see the clever
workings of her mind. When the war ended,
and the little factory was dismantled, she killed
herself. I didn’t know what it meant,
what she had done, as if she had canned
her own spirit. I wish I could thank her
for showing me a woman Hephaistos
at her forge fire. My mother held me up
as if to be blessed by her. I wish her
heaven could have been the earth she had been desiring.
Diagnosis
By the time I was six months old, she knew something
was wrong with me. I got looks on my face
she had not seen on any child
in the family, or the extended family,
or the neighborhood. My mother took me in
to the pediatrician with the kind hands,
a doctor with a name like a suit size for a wheel:
Hub Long. My mom did not tell him
what she thought in truth, that I was Possessed.
It was just these strange looks on my face—
he held me, and conversed with me,
chatting as one does with a baby, and my mother
said, She’s doing it now! Look!
She’s doing it now! and the doctor said,
What your daughter has
is called a sense
of humor. Ohhh, she said, and took me
back to the house where that sense would be tested
and found to be incurable.
At Night
At night my mother tucked me in, with a
jamming motion—her fingertips
against the swag of sheets and blankets
hanging down, where the acme angle of the
Sealy Posturepedic met
the zenith angle of the box spring—she shoved,
stuffing, doubling the layers, suddenly
tightening the bed, racking it one notch
smaller, so the sheets pressed me like a fierce
restraint. I was my mother’s squeeze,
my mother was made of desire leashed.
And my sister and I shared a room—
my mother tucked me in like a pinch,
with a shriek, then wedged my big sister in, with a
softer eek, we were like the parts of a
sexual part, squeaky and sweet,
the room full of girls was her blossom, the house was my
mother’s bashed, pretty ship, she
battened us down, this was our home,
she fastened us down in it, in her sight,
as a part of herself, and she had welcomed that part—
embraced it, nursed it, tucked it in, turned out the light.
Behavior Chart
There was one for each child, hand-ruled
with the ivory ruler—horizontal
the chores and sins, vertical
the days of the week. And my brother’s and sister’s
charts were spangled with gold stars,
as if those five-point fetlocks of brightness were
the moral fur they were curly with, young
anti-Esaus of the house, and my chart
was a mess of pottage marks, some slots filled
in so hard you could see where the No. 2
Mongol had broken—the rug under the grid
fierce with lead-thorns. My box score
KO, KO, I was Lucifer’s knockout, yet it
makes me laugh now to remember my chart.
Affection for my chart?! As if I am looking
back on matter—my siblings’ stars armed
figures of value, and my x’ed-out boxes
a chambered hatchery of minor
evils, spiny
rode it, rider on a mount, the one who had
a name and spoke. It lies on the rocks in its
camouflage, canteen at its belt,
probably still holding water,
and it can’t do anything, it can’t even
get at the water, they will put it in a pit,
cover it over, it will never feel
that vivid one
wake in it.
PART TWO : The Cannery
The Cannery, 1942–1945
When we’d visit it, down the street,
in the grammar school, I was so young
I sat on my mother’s forearm, and gazed at the
stainless retort where the cylinders
of tinned iron and sheet metal,
hermetically sealed, glided, at a slant,
like a column of soldered soldiers, single-
file, down along the slatted chrome
ramp from the flame-sterilizers
in the requisitioned lunchroom. The woman
who ran that home-front cannery was
shorter than I from my perch, she was heavy, she had
short hair, and she moved with purpose,
there in her war-effort kitchen. I thought she had
invented the machine, and owned it, down would
soar, shoulder to shoulder, the ranks of
rations, as if we could see the clever
workings of her mind. When the war ended,
and the little factory was dismantled, she killed
herself. I didn’t know what it meant,
what she had done, as if she had canned
her own spirit. I wish I could thank her
for showing me a woman Hephaistos
at her forge fire. My mother held me up
as if to be blessed by her. I wish her
heaven could have been the earth she had been desiring.
Diagnosis
By the time I was six months old, she knew something
was wrong with me. I got looks on my face
she had not seen on any child
in the family, or the extended family,
or the neighborhood. My mother took me in
to the pediatrician with the kind hands,
a doctor with a name like a suit size for a wheel:
Hub Long. My mom did not tell him
what she thought in truth, that I was Possessed.
It was just these strange looks on my face—
he held me, and conversed with me,
chatting as one does with a baby, and my mother
said, She’s doing it now! Look!
She’s doing it now! and the doctor said,
What your daughter has
is called a sense
of humor. Ohhh, she said, and took me
back to the house where that sense would be tested
and found to be incurable.
At Night
At night my mother tucked me in, with a
jamming motion—her fingertips
against the swag of sheets and blankets
hanging down, where the acme angle of the
Sealy Posturepedic met
the zenith angle of the box spring—she shoved,
stuffing, doubling the layers, suddenly
tightening the bed, racking it one notch
smaller, so the sheets pressed me like a fierce
restraint. I was my mother’s squeeze,
my mother was made of desire leashed.
And my sister and I shared a room—
my mother tucked me in like a pinch,
with a shriek, then wedged my big sister in, with a
softer eek, we were like the parts of a
sexual part, squeaky and sweet,
the room full of girls was her blossom, the house was my
mother’s bashed, pretty ship, she
battened us down, this was our home,
she fastened us down in it, in her sight,
as a part of herself, and she had welcomed that part—
embraced it, nursed it, tucked it in, turned out the light.
Behavior Chart
There was one for each child, hand-ruled
with the ivory ruler—horizontal
the chores and sins, vertical
the days of the week. And my brother’s and sister’s
charts were spangled with gold stars,
as if those five-point fetlocks of brightness were
the moral fur they were curly with, young
anti-Esaus of the house, and my chart
was a mess of pottage marks, some slots filled
in so hard you could see where the No. 2
Mongol had broken—the rug under the grid
fierce with lead-thorns. My box score
KO, KO, I was Lucifer’s knockout, yet it
makes me laugh now to remember my chart.
Affection for my chart?! As if I am looking
back on matter—my siblings’ stars armed
figures of value, and my x’ed-out boxes
a chambered hatchery of minor
evils, spiny
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