One side of It

to stand as witness and be swallowed
in the returning wonder walls of sea
one side to be blinded
by the stinging tail of the miracle
drowned in the froth of its slamming shut
stuck in its sliding door still
unsure of the force you’ve followed

but here all our sons have died
strangled by angels
and the blood has dried
on the gaping doorframes
now the whole place reeks of a mystery
stronger than the heart can separate
or part back into two waves

fragments

I'm reading Anne Carson's Sappho translation If Not, Winter, and thinking about lost things. I'm thinking about my favorite swimsuit in 8th grade (my first two-piece), my first CD collection, the pictures on my memory card when I doused my old camera with coffee, my green wallet, and one stack of 4th period's character analysis essays (I know, I'm awful). None of these things would be on my mind if I still had access to them. They all shimmer with unique beauty because they have entered the realm of the never-to-be-recovered. For an absentminded type like me, that's a large realm.

My curiousity about Sappho was peaked when I studied e.e. cummings. In college, cummings was greatly influenced by the fragments and shaken syntax of Sappho. Here's a poem of hers:

]heart
]absolutely
]I can
]
]would be for me
]to shine in answer
]face
]
]having been stained
]

The open brackets indicate torn or rubbed away fragments of papyrus. Anne Carson, in this version, has taken what is legible and morphed that into a poem, of sorts.


Now here's one of cummings:

(but

true

to the incomparable

couch of death thy

rhythmic

lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring)

The way he forces whole thoughts into fragmentation is homage to her fragmented thoughts. This fragmentation is arguably what made him such a popular poet.

While it was a clear choice for Cummings, Sappho never meant for her writing to be broken apart. Yet it's taken on a life its own because of this loss. For example, this one:

]
]
]Atthis for you
]
]

That's all of it. There's nothing particularly magical about those words. It's the emptiness surrounding them that sings.

There is something really powerful in silence. The situations that still haunt you, in all probability, are the ones for which you still don't have clear answers.



What I leave out

the whole pieces

of nights when maybe it rained

I trained

memories to flake away

like cheap gilding

like that was all you weighed

so truth patches

beneath other things

even for me

what I want

is to find the scroll

where you keep me

in scratches and [

there is no reason

except

things erased

still

factor

first crush

I’ve fallen in love with a house. An old, rundown, oddly shaped house. It’s gone through many tenants, and I toured it once, when it was up for rent. It was perfect.

How do I know for sure it’s a full-blown crush? I’m rationalizing. I'm dusting away the quirks away with creative logic. That's love--the ability to see potential where others raise eyebrows.

For example, the yard is terrifying. A giant side-yard, overrun with shoulder-high weeds, a grove of unruly, snarled trees, and most likely a few woodland creatures. Instead of admitting that this would be a pain in the ass, I think to myself: what stress-relief weeding would become. I imagine myself, well-clothed to protect from spiders and sharp teeth of smallish animals, trekking into the heart of it all with a scythe.

Or, take the extremely long, narrow hallway that joins the kitchen to the rest of the house—I've decided there’s just enough room for a book-nook. Maybe squeeze a window-seat into the dormer. Cozy-chic.

Once I talked a walking buddy into trespassing (the house was still for sale, so we figured we could just say we were checking the place out.) We picked oranges in the backyard. If I’d had my way, would have spent the evening sitting on the crooked brick patio until somebody kicked us out.

My housecrush has recently blossomed to a fever, fanned by the flames of impossibility. Someone bought the house. Someone is fixing it up—he’s venting his aggression on the side-jungle. He’s taking out his long days rooting up the sagging front fence and putting in a (rather kitschy, if you ask me) white-picket number.

Once, while on a run, I saw him industriously rooting up old fence posts.

I opened my mouth and choked out, “I love this house,” and then, “and you’re making it look so good.”

“Well, thank you,” he returned, taking a step away from me. “Thanks a lot. My partner and I certainly enjoy the challenge.”

“You’re doing great,” I gulped, and jogged on, seething with jealousy, but also a little awed—this is the guy who can light the outdoor fireplace any time he wants. He (and his partner) are free to pick the oranges without a twinge of guilt. Perhaps they even see the nook-potential of the dormer window.

I like to pretend that I don’t have many real fixed dreams, that I’m content letting the current of life take me to what is next, and doing my best there. Outright expectations make me nervous. To outright try is to potentially outright fail.

But somewhere in the brick patio and beveled glass doors that lead to the kitchenette, I love this little white house enough to risk embarrassment and say, outright— I want this.

For now, I’ll try and keep content walking by (and perhaps staring in the window a split second longer than appropriate.) But someday, something stronger might develop. A girl can dream.