Jeanann Verlee
While Writing an Ode to my Lover's Hands, He Tells Me about the Revolver
for Ian John Basdeo Khadan
He dreams of revolvers. How they become
too hot to aim, pin-cock. How they melt
before he can release their dying. I cannot
see inside him. Don't know what lives there.
Most days I think I might. If I stare
hard enough into the beaded black.
His hands are always unfolded before me.
Always full of gifts. Coins, milk, rose petals,
keys, answers, books, wine, praise.
He fills his mouth with impossible delusions.
Says I am large. Of the heavens, stars.
Words like brilliant and unbreakable.
His hands deserve odes written to their
every brick and nimble doing. I want
to tell you he'd take down a building
for me with these hands, he'd empty
a man of his blood, empty a revolver,
but he'd hesitate in my telling because
you would think him a brute. And he's right,
isn't he? You'd think him cinder-block
and pit bull. You'd picture his youth,
boys every shade of brown and bullet.
You'd guess of a ramshackle home, wonder
of his parents, if any. You'd picture clay
dust streets. Or asphalt and sirens. You'd
say, where is Guyana on a map, anyway? Or
you'd mishear Ghana because we Americans
always do, as I did once, and while you might
picture it beautiful, it won't be his beautiful
and he cannot help but scorn over the mistaking
so I don't tell you the story. I don't tell you
he still dreams of his dogs, and coconut meat.
Don't tell of his caterpillar letters or his prayers
over the seawall. I don't tell you how he moves
graceful in the dreams, his boxer trunk dancing,
eased as ballet or Michael and his feet, how
they drape from his calves – this part is real,
though he'll never show you – angle like pointe
shoes and he buries them in Timbs and shredded
hems on his jeans. He is six worlds in one man.
I will tell you he dreams it is me who provides
the revolver. Always. Recurring, he says.
My face turns to a barrel of stones but he calls it
freedom. Says the revolver frees him from captors
in the dreams, but I see a woman made of gun powder,
always ticking. Always seconds away from a struck
match. How I give him something to kill every day.
How he blesses his hands, their able.
Good Girl
Every morning I sit at the kitchen table over a tall glass of water swallowing pills.
(So my hands won’t shake.) (So my heart won’t race.) (So my face won’t thaw.)
(So my blood won’t mold.) (So the voices won’t scream.) (So I don’t reach for
knives.) (So I keep out of the oven.) (So I eat every morsel.) (So the wine goes
bitter.) (So I remember the laundry.) (So I remember to call.) (So I remember the
name of each pill.) (So I remember the name of each sickness.) (So I keep my
hands inside my hands.) (So the city won’t rattle.) (So I don’t weep on the bus.) (So
I don’t wander the guardrail.) (So the flashbacks go quiet.) (So the insomnia
sleeps.) (So I don’t jump at car horns.) (So I don’t jump at cat-calls.) (So I don’t
jump a bridge.) (So I don’t twitch.) (So I don’t riot.) (So I don’t slit a strange man’s
throat.)
The Sick is an Ocean, I am Learning to Swim
Why is fire the only metaphor I have for all this dying? Who feeds the dogs when I end? Where have all the rivers
gone? When did I learn to float? I cut my finger on a piece of tin in the office kitchen. I have an office. I have
appointments. Plans. I’ve cut my finger and don’t care to find a Band-Aid. I want to send a search party. This is
the office kitchen and I have rent to pay. What of my privilege? I have coffee and too many shoes. A bank
account. Body lotion and dental floss. What of the invisible sick? Nothing but a river will do. What if I lose the
map? How will I meet the bridge? What if I never find my hands? Why does the cut clot? Where does a sedative
go to die? I keep secrets in obvious places. Stole a another box of razors. I hide sleeping pills in the underwear
drawer. A new end wakes me every morning. How far is four stories? What if I crush a pigeon? Where does guilt
go? I have all this privilege and I’m always trying to leave. There is leftover chicken in the office fridge. I am
vegetarian so I give it to Lupe who cleans the office and has two little boys. What would Lupe do if I ended here?
Why all this blood? Who can show me where I keep my bed? Who will love my father when I’m gone? Who will
clean this goddamned kitchen? Red fingerprints, everywhere.
Jeanann Verlee is author of Racing Hummingbirds, which earned the Independent Publisher Book Award Silver Medal for poetry. She was also awarded the Sandy Crimmins National Prize for Poetry. Her work has appeared in The New York Quarterly, Rattle, failbetter, and >kill author, among others. She is a poetry editor for Union Station Magazine and director of Urbana Poetry Slam in New York City. She wears polka dots and kisses Rottweilers. She believes in you.
Return to January 2013 Edition
for Ian John Basdeo Khadan
He dreams of revolvers. How they become
too hot to aim, pin-cock. How they melt
before he can release their dying. I cannot
see inside him. Don't know what lives there.
Most days I think I might. If I stare
hard enough into the beaded black.
His hands are always unfolded before me.
Always full of gifts. Coins, milk, rose petals,
keys, answers, books, wine, praise.
He fills his mouth with impossible delusions.
Says I am large. Of the heavens, stars.
Words like brilliant and unbreakable.
His hands deserve odes written to their
every brick and nimble doing. I want
to tell you he'd take down a building
for me with these hands, he'd empty
a man of his blood, empty a revolver,
but he'd hesitate in my telling because
you would think him a brute. And he's right,
isn't he? You'd think him cinder-block
and pit bull. You'd picture his youth,
boys every shade of brown and bullet.
You'd guess of a ramshackle home, wonder
of his parents, if any. You'd picture clay
dust streets. Or asphalt and sirens. You'd
say, where is Guyana on a map, anyway? Or
you'd mishear Ghana because we Americans
always do, as I did once, and while you might
picture it beautiful, it won't be his beautiful
and he cannot help but scorn over the mistaking
so I don't tell you the story. I don't tell you
he still dreams of his dogs, and coconut meat.
Don't tell of his caterpillar letters or his prayers
over the seawall. I don't tell you how he moves
graceful in the dreams, his boxer trunk dancing,
eased as ballet or Michael and his feet, how
they drape from his calves – this part is real,
though he'll never show you – angle like pointe
shoes and he buries them in Timbs and shredded
hems on his jeans. He is six worlds in one man.
I will tell you he dreams it is me who provides
the revolver. Always. Recurring, he says.
My face turns to a barrel of stones but he calls it
freedom. Says the revolver frees him from captors
in the dreams, but I see a woman made of gun powder,
always ticking. Always seconds away from a struck
match. How I give him something to kill every day.
How he blesses his hands, their able.
Good Girl
Every morning I sit at the kitchen table over a tall glass of water swallowing pills.
(So my hands won’t shake.) (So my heart won’t race.) (So my face won’t thaw.)
(So my blood won’t mold.) (So the voices won’t scream.) (So I don’t reach for
knives.) (So I keep out of the oven.) (So I eat every morsel.) (So the wine goes
bitter.) (So I remember the laundry.) (So I remember to call.) (So I remember the
name of each pill.) (So I remember the name of each sickness.) (So I keep my
hands inside my hands.) (So the city won’t rattle.) (So I don’t weep on the bus.) (So
I don’t wander the guardrail.) (So the flashbacks go quiet.) (So the insomnia
sleeps.) (So I don’t jump at car horns.) (So I don’t jump at cat-calls.) (So I don’t
jump a bridge.) (So I don’t twitch.) (So I don’t riot.) (So I don’t slit a strange man’s
throat.)
The Sick is an Ocean, I am Learning to Swim
Why is fire the only metaphor I have for all this dying? Who feeds the dogs when I end? Where have all the rivers
gone? When did I learn to float? I cut my finger on a piece of tin in the office kitchen. I have an office. I have
appointments. Plans. I’ve cut my finger and don’t care to find a Band-Aid. I want to send a search party. This is
the office kitchen and I have rent to pay. What of my privilege? I have coffee and too many shoes. A bank
account. Body lotion and dental floss. What of the invisible sick? Nothing but a river will do. What if I lose the
map? How will I meet the bridge? What if I never find my hands? Why does the cut clot? Where does a sedative
go to die? I keep secrets in obvious places. Stole a another box of razors. I hide sleeping pills in the underwear
drawer. A new end wakes me every morning. How far is four stories? What if I crush a pigeon? Where does guilt
go? I have all this privilege and I’m always trying to leave. There is leftover chicken in the office fridge. I am
vegetarian so I give it to Lupe who cleans the office and has two little boys. What would Lupe do if I ended here?
Why all this blood? Who can show me where I keep my bed? Who will love my father when I’m gone? Who will
clean this goddamned kitchen? Red fingerprints, everywhere.
Jeanann Verlee is author of Racing Hummingbirds, which earned the Independent Publisher Book Award Silver Medal for poetry. She was also awarded the Sandy Crimmins National Prize for Poetry. Her work has appeared in The New York Quarterly, Rattle, failbetter, and >kill author, among others. She is a poetry editor for Union Station Magazine and director of Urbana Poetry Slam in New York City. She wears polka dots and kisses Rottweilers. She believes in you.
Return to January 2013 Edition