Yahni Lei Chismar
Calm
Have you ever cocked the knees out,
stood bow-legged in slacks,
insisted the ankles pose
a foot apart in photographs
so the inner thighs, somehow,
have breathing room in between?
Have you ever used a steak knife
to erase wine stains on the teeth,
scoured tongue, gums, the sharp
tip of canines, banishing each
blotch, smudge, cider-tinted discoloration
into Crest Strips while you sleep?
Have you ever curved the spine
around the backside
of your lover, nipped, tucked,
sucked the belly into ribs
until you couldn't breathe,
and still he says he does not love you?
Have you ever shorn the hair
with garden shears, clipped
red so the gray shows through,
interrogated the hand-held mirror
until the bald patches become
acquaintances and the nicks draw blood?
Have you ever slunk to the knees,
knuckles gripped around piss, pubic
hair, splattered dung on the rim
of white porcelain, purged remains
of eggs on rye until the salt
sticks to the throat and you are calm?
Brevity
One:
Wilted cattails in a dark-watered marsh.
Malevolent breathing escapes through the moss.
A warty toad leaps for dry land and a blanched
hand rises up through the swamp water.
Two:
She said benign.
We dangled our legs in the pool.
We intertwined our hands like braids.
We swore to be survivors, to refuse
brevity, to lap up life like white gravy.
She never broke her stare, never blinked,
never frowned down her wide mouth.
She was my mother and she lied.
Three:
My teenage son visits on the weekends;
when he feels like it, when guilt rises up
like bile; when Wi-Fi and Cable TV
and acoustic guitars become dispensable
for twenty hours at a time. Granny drives
him to my home, which is not his home.
His choice, his mandate, his fear that the bottle
will be loved more than him. I open my door
when he comes and I do not blame him.
Four:
I hang my house keys and sunglasses
between the wood-painted frog prince
plaque and the entryway light switches.
I do this now without even noticing.
Open door, put them in their place,
remove coat and cashmere scarf and hang
in closet, grab cellphone and cigarettes
and cherry chap-stick from over-sized
shoulder bag and fling onto coffee table.
Remove shoes without hands or bending over,
heels and toes and gumption doing all the labor.
Walk four feet to couch, lay on my right side
facing TV and tall, metal antennae.
Press play on remote, light a smoke,
and watch yet another episode of True Blood.
I always knew I'd make a good soldier,
structure and blind habit my sweet, sweet soul sisters.
Five:
The day I stopped trying not to drink
was the day my life was reconciled.
The guilt collapsed like dominoes.
The shame receded into its snail shell.
Failure was no longer my handmaiden
and wine declined to be my downfall.
I am not fixed or saved or even sane.
Living still has its many barricades,
its harrowing ravines, its ladders and dank
basements and hard plastic coatings.
It is still a struggle to dive into oncoming waves.
But now at least my eyes stay open underwater.
Six:
Is my brain even pea-sized?
Is my heart no more than a pinch of cumin?
Are my hands prematurely arthritic and my womb
slipping like used rubbers into early menopause?
I do not recognize my face in the mirror.
This skin is beyond the times of smile lines.
At thirty-eight, age has crept up like a criminal ,
cloaking invaluable youth inside ragged satchels.
Pity me, o' world of beauty. Pity me, o' thieves
of intellect and cruel happenstance.
Go ahead and place me in a clear vase.
Make me visible, make me known.
You will be as I am one day or another.
A crone wading under swamp water,
hand up-heaved, biding time until
another hand renders me free.
Yahni Lei Chismar resides in Eugene, Oregon and has been previously published in the University of Oregon's Literary Journal, Timberline.
Have you ever cocked the knees out,
stood bow-legged in slacks,
insisted the ankles pose
a foot apart in photographs
so the inner thighs, somehow,
have breathing room in between?
Have you ever used a steak knife
to erase wine stains on the teeth,
scoured tongue, gums, the sharp
tip of canines, banishing each
blotch, smudge, cider-tinted discoloration
into Crest Strips while you sleep?
Have you ever curved the spine
around the backside
of your lover, nipped, tucked,
sucked the belly into ribs
until you couldn't breathe,
and still he says he does not love you?
Have you ever shorn the hair
with garden shears, clipped
red so the gray shows through,
interrogated the hand-held mirror
until the bald patches become
acquaintances and the nicks draw blood?
Have you ever slunk to the knees,
knuckles gripped around piss, pubic
hair, splattered dung on the rim
of white porcelain, purged remains
of eggs on rye until the salt
sticks to the throat and you are calm?
Brevity
One:
Wilted cattails in a dark-watered marsh.
Malevolent breathing escapes through the moss.
A warty toad leaps for dry land and a blanched
hand rises up through the swamp water.
Two:
She said benign.
We dangled our legs in the pool.
We intertwined our hands like braids.
We swore to be survivors, to refuse
brevity, to lap up life like white gravy.
She never broke her stare, never blinked,
never frowned down her wide mouth.
She was my mother and she lied.
Three:
My teenage son visits on the weekends;
when he feels like it, when guilt rises up
like bile; when Wi-Fi and Cable TV
and acoustic guitars become dispensable
for twenty hours at a time. Granny drives
him to my home, which is not his home.
His choice, his mandate, his fear that the bottle
will be loved more than him. I open my door
when he comes and I do not blame him.
Four:
I hang my house keys and sunglasses
between the wood-painted frog prince
plaque and the entryway light switches.
I do this now without even noticing.
Open door, put them in their place,
remove coat and cashmere scarf and hang
in closet, grab cellphone and cigarettes
and cherry chap-stick from over-sized
shoulder bag and fling onto coffee table.
Remove shoes without hands or bending over,
heels and toes and gumption doing all the labor.
Walk four feet to couch, lay on my right side
facing TV and tall, metal antennae.
Press play on remote, light a smoke,
and watch yet another episode of True Blood.
I always knew I'd make a good soldier,
structure and blind habit my sweet, sweet soul sisters.
Five:
The day I stopped trying not to drink
was the day my life was reconciled.
The guilt collapsed like dominoes.
The shame receded into its snail shell.
Failure was no longer my handmaiden
and wine declined to be my downfall.
I am not fixed or saved or even sane.
Living still has its many barricades,
its harrowing ravines, its ladders and dank
basements and hard plastic coatings.
It is still a struggle to dive into oncoming waves.
But now at least my eyes stay open underwater.
Six:
Is my brain even pea-sized?
Is my heart no more than a pinch of cumin?
Are my hands prematurely arthritic and my womb
slipping like used rubbers into early menopause?
I do not recognize my face in the mirror.
This skin is beyond the times of smile lines.
At thirty-eight, age has crept up like a criminal ,
cloaking invaluable youth inside ragged satchels.
Pity me, o' world of beauty. Pity me, o' thieves
of intellect and cruel happenstance.
Go ahead and place me in a clear vase.
Make me visible, make me known.
You will be as I am one day or another.
A crone wading under swamp water,
hand up-heaved, biding time until
another hand renders me free.
Yahni Lei Chismar resides in Eugene, Oregon and has been previously published in the University of Oregon's Literary Journal, Timberline.
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