Turning to Fiction: Poems

By Donna Masini

"Think approximately sex," this publication starts, then strikes in the course of the areas into which our longings lead us. listed below are confessions whispered over the telephone in "Phone Sex," sins acknowledged to monks, "pretend confessions" instructed to a sister. listed below are poems a few mom educating a daughter to learn, a lady attempting to learn her mom, a girl attempting to learn fans, and marriage, and herself.

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No. okay. No hold it. frequently I agreed. We have been casting off issues, leaving the lads we couldn’t take into account loving us, males who’d made our hearts shudder. We labored progressively. That evening we slept, a bit fitful, the grinding steadier, slightly—not fairly louder— more—insistent. within the morning I acknowledged it was once a bit— no, it didn’t preserve me up, probably not, a bit excessive. definite, my buddy stated, you too. The 3rd evening the grinding, respiring worked, the best way a truck grunts gearing up, a wrecking ball knocks down a wall. All evening clenched, stressful, we jarred one another, racking up our separate losses. within the morning we rose jointly, a bit apprehensive. We couldn’t examine each other, now not at once. Don’t exhibit me, she stated. sure. poor. We agreed. We made espresso, attempted to chuckle. It was once like they’d defined. Like a undertaking, a demolition. those griefs we couldn’t converse to. in any case, in Brooklyn, I’d pulled out, one after one other, the outdated records—their cardboard sleeves chewed via. The Beatles’ White Album, Joni Mitchell’s Blue face part long past. Wriggling milky issues wormed around the covers. Termites, the exterminator stated. They’re going at it years ahead of you spot, then part your home is long gone. Termites had eaten via our partitions, pictures, 3 years of traditional background chewed to grit—the spiny roads roping via them—years crunched to dirt. Weeks now I’ve been contemplating disintegration, the best way we carry the bewildered lives in our palms, allow them to pass. Eleven-Headed girl determine (Dogon Statue. Mali. Artist unknown, date unknown) what percentage jaws clench each one evening? what number hungers 11 mouths needs to disguise. Her heads shape a small birdcage on her shoulders. Her brief legs buckle. What does each one head carry? Which holds her worry of canines? the place is the reminiscence— iciness afternoon—Siena—the purple stones, her mother’s breast. during this one her father has long past out of the home back. What makes him sleep like that? this type of lengthy sleep, the vapor of his breath, hissing. They’d chiseled out a bit of her and poured their tedious calls for, their fears into her. the place does she leisure them, those 11 echoes, the place does she lay them whilst she makes love? You’re made from stone, the guy acknowledged. I don’t be aware of what I see, he acknowledged, on your eyes. It’s a voice pretending to be soft, yet she understands, she understands the demanding bone of that voice, she has it in a single of her heads—like concrete, notwithstanding concrete hasn’t but been invented. She’d like to lie by means of a river and she’d provide whatever to leisure that cage. She observed an image (which head had she kept it in? ), a twittering chook. She’s an uncovered nerve, Medusa along with her cage of snakes. What holds them, those top-heavy girls? What retains them going, heads continuously poking, snooping into quiet afternoons, whilst the physique could fairly simply supply. She waits by means of the telephone, yet its simply that ringing cage. should you degree, her head takes up 1/2 her. house for all these tables and suitcases, what she took after the divorce. That damn round within the cage.

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