Janet McCann







    WHITE BASINS



     



    The gleaming white fixtures of the dream,



    squat, toilet-like, or square, sauna-sized,



    roomful of them, strange chrome taps



     



    with arcs of pipe, elbow-joints, gauges



    tiny, immense, oblong, hexagon,



    and I am so dirty and hot, but only a few



     



    spatters of rusty water come from the first basin,



    the second gushes forth steam, I dare not



    approach, and the third rumbles and groans



     



    but gives out nothing.  And so it goes,



    never the gentle spray, the clear



    warm water, though others are entering now



     



    and laugh, and splash, and here I am, parched,



    filthy, Goldilocks of the bathroom,



    and nothing seems to fit.















    CONVALESCENT



     



    His outline is thinner,



    it is harder to distinguish him



    from the air.



     



    Sunflowers in the field



    so loud



    they drown him out.



     



    And the stones!  He kicks



    a rock, surprised



    that it moves,



     



    that his foot does not pass



    right through it,



    that the road is firm.



     



    Look at him, see what hurt



    the love, the illness did,



    the jagged distances.



     



    I (his body says)



    was gone,



    am mostly (somewhat) back.















    HOW TO GO BACK



     



    Cross out text replace with book.



              Throw away the implements and scales.



     



    Resurrect the author, it's easier



          than you might think.  Call her back to life



    with her words.  Do not look at her



                   until you have both exited the tunnel.



     



    While you stand with her outside of history



              spread out your best tea set and sit down.



       You have to eat with her



    or you won't believe in your success.  



     



    Choose refreshments for the chosen subject,



             tea and fairy cakes for Emily,



     whisky for Hemingway, fussy cocktails



                    for anyone from the 50's.



     



    Open between you, the book grows new again,



         cover stains vanish, now it has just come



    fresh from the bookstore.  Ask her what she meant



                      by vicissitudes.  Be grateful



     



    for her answer, for you need no other.



                  When they call for you



    you must not hear them.  Just stay there with her,



         the afternoon, the book, the shared collation.



     



    Yes, you can do this.  Take your book and go.. 



     









    DESIRE FOR WINTER



     



    The mind winces off the fall season. No snow falls here, no sure obliteration. 

    Copperhead in the vines, a rustle, a brownish curve. The mind closes.



     

    The iron gate clangs when someone comes in: something hopeful, the mail. 

    Open and shut case.  Mind closes.



     

    I voted this morning against all the proposed changes because nothing 

    this government wants to do could possibly bring anyone good.



     

    Slippage.  Between the garden and the road.  A gate that does not quite shut.

     



    The chill of winter is a good.  Outside I see the snow machines patiently 

    flattening the streets.  Or I would if I were there.  As a child I loved 

    snow globes. I broke one once.  It was an accident.  On the tiles.  

    There were curved pieces of glass and the plastic couple unveiled in the center 

    as nothing more than what they were, rough ungainly manikins, 

    colors not fitting the lines.  The blue of her coat 

    slopped over on to her legs. And yet I did not throw them away.

     



    It is good to see things through curved glass.



     

    No snow falls here.  There is a woody winter brown, and a wheat-color.  

    The leaves do not change color here but simply fall.  There is no veil 

    over anything.  If I tried to describe it to you, I would say that it is 

    like wearing glasses that are just a bit too strong. So that the outlines 

    are too sharp and make you want to look away.                          





    The government does not exist below zero.  I want to go there.  

    Where the laws of nature are the law.

     



    The winter mind, winter trees, winterly.  I want to breathe winterly. Cold 

    catches in the chest like stars, trees shrug off their shawls of snow.  Then 

    sleep comes, the crystal center.  As though the snow globe were one clear 

    substance all the way through, you could stare into it until the couple 

    became your parents, locked in a caul of time, breathing their winters. 



     







    YOU, CASSANDRA



     



    hag-headed torn-dress screeching



    hear you in my voice



    ripped and wandering over battlefields



     



    hysteria they named from womb



    but it is the voice of history



    of her story



     



    high whine of present turning past



    knowing what is being done



    and is in the act of it sealed to time



     



    violent vortex of the world



    whirling down the curve of your knowledge



    towards the moment passed



     



    Stop, do not do this,



    But it has already happened, history is over,



    a woman poises on a cliff, screaming.

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

	

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