"Just as well I didn't win"

"As a sophomore, she came in second to Sylvia Plath in a poetry contest. She longed to beat Plath, her nemesis. Later, though, she would toss her head and say, 'Just as well I didn't win.'" --Tad Friend about his mother.


Fairy Tale Ending

Each time it floods, the propane tank becomes
dislodged, resulting in a maple smell
in my apartment—leaking gas. The first
time it occurred, I spent the night downstairs
in a spare flat. The second time, I wedged
the doors and windows open, less afraid
of bugs that might creep in. Then after that,
the screens only. I ached the whole next day.
Last night I woke up cold and closed them all.
Turned off the fan. To me, the head-inside-
the-oven-trick has always seemed absurd,
some self-inflicted gingerbread-house end.
Why be the witch? I woke this morning dis-
enchanted, like all sleeping princesses.

Five-Year Anniversary

Meeting Jeff

A group of Valenciennes-based teaching assistants had organized a group excursion to IKEA on Saturday afternoon. They ranged in age from twenty to thirty-three (me) and were predominantly from Europe—UK, Ireland, Germany, Spain, Austria, Italy—but there were a few Americans, Canadians and an Aussie. I had met most of them already at our training sessions in Lille, but not the sexy, young, obviously gay Ryan Gosling lookalike in a green hoodie sitting across from me on the train to IKEA. We hit it off, and within five minutes of being in the store, we were sharing a cart and planning his exodus from the house of the evil prof he was staying with. Clearly, he would stay at my place and sleep on my couch until he found a place. Luckily, he was a little guy, so he’d easily fit in my tiny apartment and could sleep comfortably on my mini sofa.

There was no standard protocol for how each school handled their teaching assistant’s lodging situation. Some stayed with students or the heads of the Anglais departments at their assigned school until they found a place, some were left completely to fend for themselves, others were given free housing on school grounds or in a nearby building. (Yes, rent-free! We all pretty much hated those assistants.)

Jeff told me horror stories about staying with Sophie, the head of the English department at his school which was located about a half hour train ride from Valenciennes in the more industrial town of Maubeuge. Instead of taking the 23-year-old under her wing, she basically expected him to sort out his shit and get out of her house as soon as possible. She was a less-than-gracious host—making gourmet meals for herself and her husband while serving Jeff leftovers at the same table, complaining about him on the phone within earshot by saying that she didn’t know she’d be stuck with some ungrateful American as part of her responsibilities as head of the English department. I wondered why she even let Jeff stay with her in the first place when she could’ve easily had him stay with the family of one of her students, but maybe the thought of having to do that much extra work had been overwhelming at the time, so she thought it would be easier for him to stay with her than having to organize a place for him. Or maybe, in fairness, she just got fed up with him surfing her internet to find other gay men in the region.

The evening after our IKEA afternoon, Sophie dropped off Jeff at my house and literally threw his last suitcase into the street, slammed shut the trunk and sped away. We laughed and lugged his suitcases up the narrow stairs to my place. And so began our companionship. Jeff’s French was superior to mine, but he wasn’t as brave as I was, so we complemented each other—I would talk to strangers in jumbled French; they would get confused; Jeff would swoop in to clear up the miscommunication. And then we’d try to figure out if the guy was gay or straight. Usually gay because we were usually at Paradis de la Bieres--the gay-friendly beer paradise (!!) near the train station.

A few days after he left his prof’s house, Jeff found a flat overlooking the train station and Paradis, so I had my apartment to myself. This was the first time I had ever lived alone. Without family. Without roommates. Without a husband. Without a boyfriend. My place.

I hung the aubergine light-blocking curtains I had purchased at IKEA. I decorated the strange gauze-over-chicken-wire walls with maps of the city, the region, the country, the continent—all the places I could reach by train. I found a wonky red ladder-back chair and a small side table outside a nearby apartment building on bulk trash day and added them to my décor. Postcards and photos from family and friends made a worthy collage above my marble fireplace mantel. I tore paper strips of red, yellow, orange, and blue from advertising flyers and brochures to make faux paper flames to go in my faux fireplace. I grocery shopped, on foot, for me only and made food that I wanted to eat, mostly salads consisting of mâche (lamb’s lettuce), beets, almonds, raisins or prunes, goat cheese on toast points, tomatoes, black pepper. I watched French TV like it was homework but took breaks to watch the occasional episode of Ally McBeal (from a DVD that came in a four-pack of toilet paper I had bought at the supermarché). I smoked cigarettes out my window and drank wine from teacups or Coca Light from spaghetti sauce jars. I listened to The Killers, Patty Griffin, Wilco, Andrew Bird, Fiona Apple, and Gillian Welch. I took baths every evening. At night, I turned up the heat as high as I wanted. I slept with my books and my computer in bed with me, so I could go to bed reading and wake up writing. I was in love with France.

What is up with all the hand injuries?

So, I've already posted this poem, but it seemed too apt with Cat's recent, similar injury and Richard's stitches from trying to cut some ham with his new carving knife before going to, um, a pig roast.

Break Out the Power Tools

Somewhere between the width of floating eye-
ball filaments and the width of fishing line.
That’s the size hole that I could drill into
my heart, if I could find a drill bit small
enough. My right hand could keep writing while
my left hand cleanly drilled a hole so thin
that when the spinning sliver was removed,
it’d heal like Wolverine or Jell-O cubes.

While making dinner for myself, I sliced
into the web of skin between my left
hand’s thumb and pointer. I rinsed and sealed it right
away and bound the digits for a week.
The cells rejoined, repaired themselves, and now
the scar has made that spot a little stronger.

Why my poems use rhyme and meter

Free Verse

Each time I try to write my head,
I end up writing feet instead.

--originally published by cellpoems.org 11/29/09

Traci as the Blue Nude

We went to the BMA to see The Cone Collection, but Blue Nude (1907) wasn't there. 




Matisse's Blue Nude Model Looks in the Mirror

He made my scars
look like accidental flicks of his palette knife.

Mismatched nipples
are swirls he pinkied on. They still look wet.

He didn't veil
my scoliotic hips but stretched them out.

My map of veins
is gone, but he left the tint all over my skin.



--originally published in Ekphrasis

Wire Hangers

He hates them. It's not just a British thing. My mom hates them, too. And I don't think it's a Mommie Dearest thing. A dumpster in the UK is called a "skip."

Cast

Into a dumpster of wire hangers, I drop.

The ripple reaches the metal walls and bongs

like someone threw a rock against the side.

I wriggle. Rustling noises soothe, like chimes

beneath the water. I’m submerged in depths

of copper, gasp for air through metal gaps.

Hooks snag my forearms, seeking to reel me in.

My neck is ringed, not wrung. They inch down, clamp

my shoulders, shackle ankles, elbows, wrists.

My hair is tangled up like fishing line.

The twisted hangers taste like licorice,

the stale, black shoestring kind. I eat my way 

towards the surface, and in my struggle there,

I wonder if I’m bait for something else.

My Biggest Fan

Two for Brendan on his birthday. 

New Arrivals Sale Clearance Free to a Good Home

I’m giving them away. Today,

my words are free, as in, no charge

for you, nor any cost to me.

What’s changed is that I know they’re lies.

It’s nothing new; the same old words

I used before but called them true.

Last year, I could’ve sold you in-

sight by the pound—some sage advice

or rule I’d traded for or found.

It’s not false advertising if

I bought it, too. The boldest lie

I sell myself? That there’s a you.

Span           

After “Untitled (No. 49),” Leonardo Drew, 1995.

Because sometimes art is more important than 

the freckles beneath his jawline—the same shade 

of rust as this sculpture. 

I cross the rope

and touch the paper, cotton, metal, wood.

I memorize each texture, every freckle.