THIS SHINING WOUND

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INTRODUCTION

At midnight we are alone on top of a hill. We sit on the ground and smoke in silence. Los Angeles is beneath us, a huge, silent fairyland. The lights glitter as far as the eye can see. Between the red, green, and white clusters, big glowworms slither noiselessly. Now I am not taken in by the mirage: I know that these are merely street lamps along the avenues, neon signs, and headlights. But mirage or no mirage, the lights keep glittering: they, too, are a truth. And perhaps they are even more moving when they express nothing but the naked presence of men. Men live here, and so the earth revolves in the quiet of the night with this shining wound in its side. (America Day By Day - Simone de Beauvoir, 1948)


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THE FITTEST LANGUAGE
after Richard Dawkins

moments of joy and terror
are not balanced
with the precision
of a blind watchmaker
nor blamed on the
reckless devil's chaplain
who adapts to survive
innocent of intent

science doesn't unweave
the poetics of a rainbow
but justly strips the gods
of shuttle and warped claims
their sparkling webs
which trick and trap
then ungraciously collapse
when fitter words appear
explaining why
life is too short for many
their meager bliss snuffed out
or for others
too long

it's not true that everything
happens for a reason
there is merely cause
a humbler palliation


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THE PUBLIC

somewhere this night
a son is dragged in the street
and left on the caked mud
his face contorted in a silent scream
his shiny eyes bulging in the darkness
quickly the rope is reclaimed
ululations pierce the heavy calm
and shouts of revenge echo
between quiet houses suddenly lit up
then sputter towards dawn
when the sun ignites the sky and
all resumes against hope

somewhere else
the light has gone out of her baby's eyes
she holds the dead child to her dry breast
lowering her head
whispering dry words of comfort
rocking

in secret places
lovers are right in their wetness
but when they separate
are recruited for a cause
by the hopeless knowing
the always already


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RESISTANCE IS FUTILE

april can be so
winter encumbered
i try walking again
layered in a long sleeved tee
and hoody sweatshirt
and thermals
and jeans
and bulky jacket
but the sun is hot
and it will no doubt
spot and freckle
my hands and face
like an old woman
i never saw myself
becoming

far into the woods
as i wander my familiar path
around the little lake
worried frogs launch
from their spawning shore
stir up muck and lurk undercover
minnows dart
beneath wooly floating leaves
then frenzy back
into clear warm water
when i pass
but they pull up short
out in the deep cold
murky center of the pond
where bigger fish await
to feed off their mistaken
direction

a giant carp slowly trolls the shallow water surrounding
the island
roiling up mud and purling water along its shiny back
game fish lie in wait and
jump
to snap up bugs
i rarely see them hit
but hear the splash and
watch the concentric circles
left behind
calmly disappear

absurdly patient
i nearly submerge a memory
one you often ask me to remember
that pale yellow sundress
with those little blue roses
and twenty tiny buttons down the front
no underwear
or underpinnings
necessary then
you put a wild violet
behind my ear
as if you could keep me
from the world


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THE FAILURE OF PANOPLY

A glutton for poetry
yet I'm starving

Whose fault is it
that I wasn't able to rip out the
cage of childhood cares
that grew around my tiny heart

The metal is now fully absorbed
and crippling the pump capacity
to my brain
Only crumbled rusty
habits of feeling remain

I falter sometimes when I talk
because corrosion disconnects my tongue
from my gray matter
My skin, transformed to armor
has crushed my backbone
and my navigation is clearly unpredictable
I list a little when I walk

The doctor tells me I need more iron


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MAMMON
after Robert Graves

you were always
reluctantly uxorious
i came trickling
streaming milk and honey
not intentionally furious
flooding and drowning
with my embrace
then mysteriously
became a drought
men called me thrice-great
first
mother
virgin-whore
death
nevertheless
they lusted
after my curious
empty bag of tricks
infinities of nothing
they stole my alphabet
but still can't decipher
the song i sing
the lyrics aren't translatable
the dance i dance?
you'd need hips to understand

i never meant to be
so necessary
and hurtful
i’m just glad
it won’t be me
this time
who is
the death of you


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WAKE UP

ants deal better with dasein
being more
altruistically determined
willing to survive
even mutate
stronger than each
genetically designed insecticide
they will probably inherit the dearth
after an unpredictable asteroid
trajects directly to
impact the talking species

or will there be
a quiet
untraceable
genocide
righteously conceived
plausibly denied

but ants can't write poetry
to deify reality
or dance pointlessly
under desert starlight

there are nooks and crannies
toxins cannot reach
and seeds that only
flower in the night


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IT’S NOTHING

revel in it

waiting here now
entranced
enamored
calling on your yet to be
observed understanding
rearing universes
you show opening
upon opening
revealing
gorgeous analytical systems
moving around now
delightfully fluid
our recollection gains
ecstatic time
derived essentially
as home

bare it

showing ourselves
justifying
self dignifying
bearing bodies
in the light of others
the only truth
is seeing
sometimes we can't bear the weight
of others losing their light
cloaked as dark matter
often we demystify
a way of being
without losing each
precious packet of
endless knowing
always beginning

lean on it

in tender camaraderie
within the shelter
of flesh & mind
i say to him
my shoulders are in my heart
no better yet
my shoulders are in my vagina
to one up me
he says
mark off a spot
i'm all shoulder


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RECOLLECTIONS OF THE UNDEAD

is life a perpetually festering wound
or soft flesh and hope unwinding
fresh eyes dim and count the scars
with pride
or shame

living is a filibuster against dying
a philosophical choice
to line up convincing orators
with passionate
verbose font
and text
eventually we grow tired, winded
role call and reverie commence
bequeathing to believers
an ineffectual
unbroken chain of
ideals

sometimes we get lucky in the story
that we won't remember
when living was a calculated gamble
our dreams against the stacked deck
fold


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HALCYONED

the sun is weak
this December
a tired yellow
in a nearly gray sky
can't get it up for me
warm it up for me
like back in October
when the kingfisher first came to our park
bluer than sky
crashing through the glassy pond
then rising with his juicy sustenance
but it's too late now
and he wings from tree to tree
eyeing the cold little abyss
rattling his dry raspy chatter
tho patient
flies away hungry . . .

they say there's a risk
for the halcyon as it plummets
from such a high place
a birdwatcher tells the story of
a female kingfisher
that dived into a lake
broke her wing and slowly bled into the water
her mate frantic and circling above . . .

i get up from my bench
and meander on and off the pathway
covering ground
some green grass
some leaves and twigs
and mud not quite frozen
the pond is covered with blotches of thin ice . . .

i have a soft pale belly
places warm and juicy
covered now by jeans and a jacket
my sundresses and straw hat
packed away for next summer
i walk carefully with my cane
eleven winters now
i pass through the park gates
dream of the coming spring


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GRAVITY OF CHOICE

all your deaths in my spring
your sorrows in my joy
on the one hand now
a comfortable solitude
on the other
your shadows
both pushing down
with equal force
on these formerly patient
no longer sturdy shoulders
you swallowed my light
with your suffocating gravity
much heavier than my paresis
i had nowhere to flee
only the futility of freedom
the nothing of wide open spaces
border wastelands
with whirling dust devil dervishes
but even here
you haunt my desert
a bottle in your hand
staring up at the stars
pleading with angels


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IRIS

(i)
one early spring evening
Chicago at dusk
after pacing the cold
linoleum floor for hours
my mother abruptly
stuffs my sister and me
into woolen coats
itchy hats and mittens
drags us into the raw wind
to the nearest bus stop...
when safely huddled
on a sideway seat
behind the driver
i get up onto my knees
and press my lips against
her perfumed silky scarf
i breathe into her ear
"where are we going?"
she places her soft
tobacco scented finger
against my mouth
"shhh…" she whispers
and mutters something goofy
then i get scared
my stomach hurts

this reminds me of the time
we sat in a restaurant
at the five point intersection
and couldn't afford to eat
we stayed until dark
way past closing
the owner had to put us out
he asked if there was anyone
he could call
Mom was so afraid
to walk past the church
a monstrous basilica
on the way home
thought the devil was going to
jump out and grab her
being an excommunicated catholic
being divorced

two hours later
it's completely dark
and we're riding the same bus
Carolyn and me are crossing over
to the opposite seat
when it empties every few stops
fidgeting back and forth
not even annoying Mom
she looks very far away
mostly we stare at the passing
neon bars signs and closing shops
and we're hypnotized by the
tail lights of the fortunate
in cars ahead of us
my little sister squeals
"i gotta pee!"
Mom blurts out too loud,
"Let's go to Auntie Jan's."
her sister is newly wed to Uncle Nicky
they live in the old Italian neighborhood
Grandpa calls him a "wop lawyer"

(ii)
Nicky welcomes us into suffocating warmth
the aroma of marinara and sausage
simmering on his mother's stove upstairs
"Janice isn't here. She and
Patricia are out bar hopping
and searching for
the perfect strawberry pie.
It's a new thing."
he has a high nasal voice
and i notice his curly black hair
large dark brown eyes
and his heavy five o'clock shadow
Nicky's rolling up the sleeves of his
now wrinkled white dress shirt
Mom was clearly agitated
entered then quickly emerged
from the walk-in closet
with her coat still on and buttoned
"Hitler's in there with Stalin.They told me
to kill all the Negro Communists upstairs."
i watch her for a long time
search Nicky's face
for indication of how he'll help her
but he is waiting on my aunts
to provide a distraction

so in they burst all smiles
and tipsy laughter
from one hand
Jan drops jangling car keys
into her new jacket pocket
in the other
she balances her treasure
for Nicky
a perfect slice of pretty pie
whole giant strawberries in a
red gelatin glaze with a
white dollop of whipped cream
still neatly peaked on top
"Pat, why don't you take the kids
into watch television for awhile."

soon there is a commotion
so i edge around the living room door
and see two men in white coats
wrestling with my betrayed mother
struggling to put her into a straitjacket
then without looking back
she leaves us again
i already know
we're heading for the children's home
or another set of foster parents
"The girls can stay here tonight,"
Nicky says, but Jan counters
"Just tonight. We haven't the room."

i wanted to grow up fast right then
and take Mom to my own house

(iii)
Nicky's father was first generation
Sicilian-American with a shiny new taxicab
sometimes a numbers runner
to send his son to law school
Nicky did lots of pro bono
sometimes took fresh produce
brake jobs or new tires as payment
he defended Mom when she
slapped the kid tormenting my sister
whenever he saw Mom
smiling and sane or sick and mumbling
walking downtown he'd yell,
"Hey Iris, how about a cup of coffee?"
we never could keep track of her
always picking up and packing off
to only god knew where
if he ever cared
we did
but it never mattered
she had rights and freedom too
never dangerous to anyone

some nights Nicky drove downtown
and picked up the racing forms
after i graduated he took me
down to Arlington to play the horses
he also played poker
one cigar reeking night
he lost the deed to his
new house in the suburbs
later won it back

that house with the big bathroom
smelled like gold dial soap
and the summer i lived there
each morning over the sink
i very quietly stirred
baking soda in a glass
trying not to clink the stainless spoon
and drank it quickly
to quell my morning sickness
before i told my boyfriend i was pregnant

(iv)
Nicky got involved in politics
and Auntie Jan divorced him
but it was his own friends
who set him up and
took him down
legally of course
then diabetes, heart attack and a coma
but at the very end
before he slipped into his final dreams
i sent him a thank you card
"for all your many kindnesses"
a few months later
Iris bolted and barred the door
to her room in the boarding house
she set out her uncashed SSI checks
pointed the new rifle she bought
and blew up her own heart
next morning when she didn't show
the young caretaker couple
noticed her missing and worried
because Iris was always
the first one to wake up
and make coffee for everyone


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INCONVENIENT TRUTHS

while everyone sleeps
i slip out into the night
and deeply breathe
the lilac air

i gaze at the crescent moon
and moan
wild inside
wanting more time

the lunar cradle
connects me to every tide and tremor
every person
lost or found

at this very moment
my friend the activist
is looking at the same moon
from her cell window


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STEELED

a word can destroy anything
whether mined for demagogues
or carved upon stone pillars
it can carry us into exile
or build an edifice of
faith in the future
it sorts and decorates and explains
a word can hex the heart


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THE FOUNTAIN
after Virgil

well
you can cry me a river
this one dried up for you
when you see my mirage
your old oasis
where you nearly died of thirst
when you finally reach here
different palms grow
cataclysms changed the course of
old rivers
running deeply subterranean now
perhaps Alpheus
if you're lucky
we were once

but just a few minutes ago
in the park
a skinny young woman
with long shiny dark hair
passed in front of me
while I rested on a bench
a chubby baby on her hip
and a toddler with a fishing pole
running ahead of her
what a sweet serendipity
i walked home and dug out this picture
no
we weren't always good to one another
but that's an other poem
yes
i still love the way you move
how you keep on
coming to lie down with me
a fucking knight errant
staring down at the cup

as long as you surface
from time to time
so will i
be fortunate
free to flow
to and from you


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H O S P I T A L

we look down
at dumb magazines
panic zooms
memories down the halls
droning in our ears

hearts
in the waiting room
enter their promises
and pleas
still

we sit here
guts strung out on a
sting
cubing our alphabet infinitely
clearing our honeycombed throats

even at this weary hour
regret clings lightly
like pollen
across shampooed carpet
and potted plants

withered blossoms
sicken the air
in the waiting room
we come in together
and stay alone


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LOTTERY

in the end
we hoped
that if i drew
a pentacle
a waxing gibbous
the relevant sign
of the zodiac
and spread the tarot
all might be well
that the most suitable herb
the appropriate color
and select letter
from the tree alphabet
would improve
our luck

now with someone else
it's a subtle shade of lipstick
the perfect wine
and trying to relax
into my authentic
whatever

wherever i am
any moment
is still contingent upon
the memory of how
you thought
about it all

i mean really
why was it
up to me?
that shit was nonsense
i just had
to leave
myself

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DEAD INDIANS

november drizzles a blanket
of soggy leaves in the park
covering burial mounds of extinct tribes
next to civil war cannons
beneath my rubber soles small twigs snap
their sound stays at my feet
muffled by the foggy mist
suddenly pierced by a blue jay's shrieking echo
then a woodpecker's drum and rattle
clouds break apart

so i sit down
take off my gloves and press my palms
against the warm black polyvinyl bench
i take off my hat and let my hair blow free
and lift my face to worship the sun
when my hat blows off the bench
rolls down to the pond and stops
caught on the edge

there are times when
i miss picking up your empties
cleaning your ashtray
you know
that plastic turquoise-colored one i bought for you
when you come to visit the kids
after all we have between us now
is history
it's where everything is headed


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TO NUMBER OUR DAYS

each april
in the park
tiny white flowers spring up
hugging the base of each tree
so unlike
a bed
where hearts are lifted
and turned over

i envy their nearly
immortal roots
their silent
confidence
safe from reluctance

i know
that moderation
now a necessity
was evil and
should never have been
my season


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DEBRIS

after this
our latest Aliscans
float me down the Rhone
to Alychamps in Arles
where sarcophagi fell from the sky
and troubadours sang of tottered graves
after these
our chansons de geste
i'm listing in ever wider circles
away from Avalon
but i recognize this little universe
as a sanctuary still greening
after our recent ice storm
left debris in its wake
the broken branches thawing
again
morning mists and solitude
chronicle my seasons
a span of life's insufficiency
manacled by boundaries
meant to be violated


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TOO MEASURED

I'm sitting
literally half-assed
on a supposedly ergonomic
black metal bench
in a Greyhound station
with only 2.5 hours left
before I depart
for another passionless
temporary destination

My timing runs late
and tears are not
so perfectly handled
as hours and minutes
These seconds sweep away
resistance to reality
The future feels unbearable
and I mourn now, as then, because
I missed your body

So, if I skipped a beat
you would have preferred
please forgive my selfish politeness
Regrettably, I'm well practiced
and you are so beautifully fragile
painfully considerate
We were too careful
Our intimacy couldn't deepen
because I was never me


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LAST NIGHT

the moon
shone brightly
through blinded windows
woke me
made huge horizontal stripes
on whitewashed walls
i turned toward its familiar beauty
smiled
widely
then wrapped in my glowing sheets
rolled back away to sleep

the moon shines on
baghdad
soweto
and pine ridge too
i want to be on the moon
and wait for the earth
to rise


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© Mary Jo Malo 1998-2008
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I am a retired freelance arts & culture critic for internet publications and a former marketing & sales associate for the energy sector. Several of these poems have appeared in different versions at philosophy and poetry forums. Two chapbooks, The Gates of Gormley Park and Another Season, were published by D.D. Newlyn Company. Also published by Blogger . . .

WAITING FOR APOPHIS: or DECONSTRUCTING ABSURDITY