The Double Ds
Want to know more about your favorite poets? In this monthly column, Dustin Brookshire and Denise Duhamel will ask a poet one poetry-related and one non-poetry-related question. Respondents’ answers will surprise and delight you. Look for Marilyn Nelson, Dara Wier, David Trinidad and Patricia Smith as part of this exciting series.
Showing posts with label Denise Duhamel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Denise Duhamel. Show all posts
Monday, July 27, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
"Wreckage" in Ducts & Duhamel Interview
Check out "Wreckage" in the current issue of Ducts. "Wreckage" is from my chapbook manuscript. Beth Gylys read the manuscript, and she had this to say:
*********************
Denise Duhamel interview in BOMB.
The collection is powerful and hard to read, and you should be proud of yourself for having the courage to write those poems.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Ouroboros Review #3
I am thrilled to have "Mercy" and "The List" as well as interview with Denise Duhamel in the third issue of the Ouroboros Review along with work by Denise Duhamel, Karen Head, Matthew Hittinger, Michelle McGrane, Rupert Fike, and many more.
Having "The List" published has put a huge smile on my face because it is one of my personal faves out of all the poems I've written. I wrote it when I was 20 or 21, and I never had any luck when I'd send it out to mags/journals/etc. Here is a big ole THANK YOU toJo and Christine for giving "The List" a home!
Denise Duhamel has two poems in Ouroboros Review #3. One of the poems, "Queen Colleen," was written in response to a challenge I gave Denise back in March of this year. Don't forget to check out "Queen Colleen."
Having "The List" published has put a huge smile on my face because it is one of my personal faves out of all the poems I've written. I wrote it when I was 20 or 21, and I never had any luck when I'd send it out to mags/journals/etc. Here is a big ole THANK YOU toJo and Christine for giving "The List" a home!
Denise Duhamel has two poems in Ouroboros Review #3. One of the poems, "Queen Colleen," was written in response to a challenge I gave Denise back in March of this year. Don't forget to check out "Queen Colleen."
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Happy Birthday Denise Duhamel
I'm posting links to Denise Duhamel related items in honor of her birthday. Drop by the Fans of Duhamel Duhamel or A Group of Duhamalites to leave her a birthday message. Enjoy the links.
One of my favorite Denise poems, "Sometimes The First Boys Don't Count."
Denise reading at Books & Books; plus, there is a statement from Denise on light verse in her work.
Denise's brilliant poem in the "How I Discovered Poetry" series.
Denise's "Fathers" in Ducts.
Brief interview with Denise in I Was Born Doing Reference Work in Sin.
Denise's "A Different Story" in The American Poetry Review.
Denise interviewed in Limp Wrist.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Denise Duhamel Comments on Light Verse
Denise Duhamel at Books and Books from Andrew Hevia on Vimeo.
Over at Fans of Denise Duhamel OR A Group of Duhamalites, Denise answers a question a month from a member of the FB Group. I'm sharing the May question and answer.
Question from Dustin Brookshire:
Recently, Steve Fellner (poet and critic) wrote an entry in his blog, Pansy Poetics, analyzing some of your poetry. His blog entry led to a series of great comments from his readers and a discussion on Light Verse in your work. The comments have led me to ask this: What role do you think Light Verse plays in contemporary poetry? (Click here for Steve's post on Denise's work.)
Denise Duhamel's Answer:
I saw that. At first, I must admit that I was horrified that Steve Fellner—whose work I love! I chose is first book for the Marsh Hawk prize—thought some of my poems were “light verse.” In my mind, light verse was synonymous with silliness. I guest-edited an issue of a literary magazine Ocho called “Florida Funnies” and I am now co-editing an issue of essays about humor in contemporary poetry for a linguistics magazine Humor. I hadn’t really even brought up the term light verse. I think, as Sean points out in one of the blog comments, “because of consumer culture, light=less than? Less calories, less fat, less flavor?” I thought that too. I even thought “Lite Poetry.” But researching light verse, and seeing its long and proud tradition, I am happy to be included. (Puns? Guilty as charged. Alliteration? Guilty as charged. Wordplay? Guilty as charge.) A lot of poets feel similarly afraid of the term “confessional,” which has recently gotten a bad rap. So poets with confessional leanings might deny they are writing confessional poetry or try to call it something else. In any case, in the end, I am happy that Steve associated my work with light verse—or even camp. While Steve is perfectly correct in quoting Sontag, she also says that camp is a way of consuming or performing culture "in quotation marks." And I really do feel I try to do that, so I’m no longer leery of the labels light verse or camp. I like Steve’s blog for the questions it raises about contemporary poetry and trying to categorize it. Do you remember that clapping song? Categories, names of…Colors…Then each child would clap and say a color until they couldn’t think of any more. We could do the same for Poetry.
Child one: Categories.
Child two: Names of.
Child one: Poetry
Child two: Light verse.
Child one: Confessional.
Child two: L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E.
Child one: Formal.
Child two: Post-confessional.
Child one: Transgressive.
Child two: Of Witness.
Child one: Neo-formal.
Child two: Feminist.
Child one: New York School.
Child two: New York School—second generation.
Child one: New York School—third generation.
Child two: Oulipo.
Child two: Harlem Renaissance.
Child one: Nature.
Child one: Surreal.
Child two: Beat.
Child one: Romantic.
Child two: Modern.
Child one: Post-modern.
Child two: Dada.
Child two: Prose poems.
Child one: Haiku.
Child one: Pansy Poetics…
Having said that, I think Light Verse may play a part in contemporary American poetry in that it’s a way to fight back against the jingle, the slogan, our consumer culture. Maybe we need tee shirts? Heavyweights of Light Verse.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
KA-CHING! Reviewed in Entertainment Weekly
Verse Things Verse: What better poetry for the current economic period than Denise Duhamel's hymns to money, ATMs, her IRA
accounts, the Treasury, gambling...and Sean Penn? Sample Lines: ''I still see the poet in you, Sean Penn/ You probably think fans like me are your penance...''
Bottom Line: Learn and have fun while you read: Using prose poems, sonnets, sestinas, and other forms in Ka-Ching!, Duhamel is a wily technician, a touching humanist, a poet deserving stardom.
Grade: A
By: Ken Tucker
Monday, April 6, 2009
How I Discovered Poetry: Denise Duhamel
SUCH A THING
I started writing
poetry
when I found out
that there was such a thing
as contemporary poetry,
that I didn’t have to
have a plot and minor characters
and a setting
and it could be all me,
like a channel
of all-Denise-all-the-time.
When I wrote stories
in my undergraduate fiction class,
the teachers asked,
“Might this instead be a poem?”
or “Don’t your characters
ever do anything but sit
at kitchen tables remembering the past?"
I started writing poetry
because there were things I couldn’t tell
anyone, but I could write them down.
I started writing poetry before I knew
it was poetry
by way of my journal and diaries.
I started writing poetry
because when the dishes flew
or my mother sobbed on the couch
my journal fell open, each page
a wing. I started writing
poetry when I had my first crush
and I couldn’t tell anyone
about it. I started writing
poetry so I myself wouldn’t
throw dishes or sob. Sometimes
I sobbed anyway and more than once
I’ve smudged my own writing
with a tear, but I wrote
right through it. I started
writing poetry because I was a misfit—
sickly, allergic. I wrote poetry
in the children’s hospital
in fourth grade when I fell in love
with a bald boy with cancer.
He was in sixth grade
with eyes that grew larger
and more stunning every day.
He wore away but not his eyes.
I wish now that I’d read him
my poems. I remember feeling
like a ten-year-old widow.
I started writing poetry
even though I found it embarrassing
to be so naked, so embarrassing
to think anyone would be interested
in what I felt.
I still find it embarrassing.
I started writing poetry
in secret. I started showing
my poems, much later, tentatively,
I guess to say, Hi,
I see you.
I’m here.
forthcoming in Limp Wrist
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Queens of Poetry
I am putting together an anthology-- Queens of Poetry: A Tribute to Bosselaar, Duhamel, Laux & Wier. I launched the site on April 1, and I have received almost ten submissions as well as a handful of queries.
Check out the submission guidelines. Submit.
Share the link to Queens of Poetry with your writing group, students, friends, on your blog, via Facebook.... whatever you can do to spread the word.
Check out the submission guidelines. Submit.
Share the link to Queens of Poetry with your writing group, students, friends, on your blog, via Facebook.... whatever you can do to spread the word.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Dustin Interviews Denise Duhamel
DB: Your sestina, "Delta Flight 659: to Sean Penn," is one of your many 'fun' poems in your latest book, KA-CHING! I'm glad to see "Delta Flight 659: to Sean Penn" up for discussion in poem: a virtual poetry group. I sent the poem to Penn's publicist, and I requested Penn respond to you with a poem. When it happens, as a thank you, you can write a poem about Dolly Parton and dedicate it to me.DD: Consider it done! It'll be a ghazal with the end words Dolly and those words that rhyme with Dolly.
DB:I was about to commission you to write the best Dolly ghazal the world has ever seen; however, I checked my bank account balance, and it is four figures, two of which are behind the decimal. I'll have to take my chances with Penn. By the way, have you seen Milk?
DD:Yes, Sean Penn was fantastic in Milk! I am so happy that he won the Academy Award for his performance.
DB:Yes, even more evidence that besides being a poet goddess, you are also a fag hag. (Mark your calendar for when you're Atlanta; we're hitting a gay bar!) This reminds me of a conversation we had about our dislike of the term fag hag. Did you ever think of a friendlier term?
DD:What about Dear Queer of Queen Princess? Or a Queen Colleen? Maybe there should be some kind of contest, conducted by a "fag hag" to come up with something more complimentary? The winner could get tickets to an Elton John concert or something...
DB:I'll end our brief but lovely conversation with a challenge. Write a villanelle, or my arm could be twisted for it be a free verse poem, titled "Queen Colleen," and the poem must address the need to replace the term fag hag.
DD:I accept your challenge!!
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Limp Wrist Limited Edition Chapbook
I am excited to announce that Limp Wrist is producing a limited edition chapbook, and it will be available in April 2009.
All proceeds from the chapbook will fund Limp Wrist's scholarship.
Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Dustin Brookshire
Kurt Brown
Denise Duhamel
Christopher Hennessy
Charles Jensen
Mary Chi-Whi Kim
Dana Guthrie Martin
Courtney Queeney
David Trinidad
Robert Walker
If you would like to reserve a copy, contact me via email dustinvbrookshire@gmail.com. The cost is $10 per chapbook-- don't forget, it goes for a great cause.
I will personally pay your shipping and handling fees if you reserve your copy before 2/1/09.
***UPDATE***
Karen Chase, Ellen Bass, and Dorianne Laux have all agreed to write a blurb for the chapbook.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Duhamel in Ducts
Fathers
My father walks through the scrub, a shortcut, to get to Walmart
where he meets up with his friends for coffee on Friday afternoons.
He says teenagers are always hanging around back there, barbequing
something. I’m assuming my father has never smelled pot
and that’s what he’s smelling now, so I say, Dad, stick to the streets,
because I am afraid for him, even though these kids
are probably mellow from weed. My father, 80, says
there are too many zooming cars on the road, and besides,
he likes the pond, the wildflowers that will probably be gone
when the plaza expands to a Super Walmart next year.
I want to make sure the teenagers don’t rob my father for his two dollars,
the way they robbed my father-in-law right in the Albertson’s bathroom,
pushing him into the white tiled wall while he was at the urinal,
then fleeing with his wallet. It took my father-in-law a long time to get up
and regain his balance. It took him a long time to replace
his credit cards and ID. He was 90 by then. My husband said,
Can’t you catch these kids on the surveillance camera?
The manager was lazy and said the supermarket wasn’t responsible.
My husband said, No one is saying the supermarket is responsible—
we just want an arrest so these kids can’t mug anyone else.
My father-in-law filled out a police report,
his provisions idle in the silver cart.
When the supermarket wanted my father to retire,
they sent him to get the carts in the rain. Though there was a union
to protect wages, employees had no fixed assignments.
Having meat men suddenly clean bathrooms or produce men
suddenly wash floors was one way management
could humiliate older workers enough to make them leave.
A grown man doing the work a teenager could.
A grown man working 40 hours a week, eating up
the supermarket’s profits with his benefits. A teenager was warm inside,
part-time, bagging, flirting with the cashier, maybe laughing
at my father because my father wasn’t the teenager’s father.
That would have been a different story all together.
~ Denise Duhamel, taken from Ducts
Don't forget you can win an autographed copy of Denise's new book, KA-CHING!, which is due out spring '09. Click here for the details.
My father walks through the scrub, a shortcut, to get to Walmart
where he meets up with his friends for coffee on Friday afternoons.
He says teenagers are always hanging around back there, barbequing
something. I’m assuming my father has never smelled pot
and that’s what he’s smelling now, so I say, Dad, stick to the streets,
because I am afraid for him, even though these kids
are probably mellow from weed. My father, 80, says
there are too many zooming cars on the road, and besides,
he likes the pond, the wildflowers that will probably be gone
when the plaza expands to a Super Walmart next year.
I want to make sure the teenagers don’t rob my father for his two dollars,
the way they robbed my father-in-law right in the Albertson’s bathroom,
pushing him into the white tiled wall while he was at the urinal,
then fleeing with his wallet. It took my father-in-law a long time to get up
and regain his balance. It took him a long time to replace
his credit cards and ID. He was 90 by then. My husband said,
Can’t you catch these kids on the surveillance camera?
The manager was lazy and said the supermarket wasn’t responsible.
My husband said, No one is saying the supermarket is responsible—
we just want an arrest so these kids can’t mug anyone else.
My father-in-law filled out a police report,
his provisions idle in the silver cart.
When the supermarket wanted my father to retire,
they sent him to get the carts in the rain. Though there was a union
to protect wages, employees had no fixed assignments.
Having meat men suddenly clean bathrooms or produce men
suddenly wash floors was one way management
could humiliate older workers enough to make them leave.
A grown man doing the work a teenager could.
A grown man working 40 hours a week, eating up
the supermarket’s profits with his benefits. A teenager was warm inside,
part-time, bagging, flirting with the cashier, maybe laughing
at my father because my father wasn’t the teenager’s father.
That would have been a different story all together.
~ Denise Duhamel, taken from Ducts
Don't forget you can win an autographed copy of Denise's new book, KA-CHING!, which is due out spring '09. Click here for the details.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Contest Open to Facebook Peeps
If you are a member of the Fans of Denise Duhamel OR A Group of Duhamalites on Facebook, you can participate in a Duhamel Scavenger-Poetic-Hunt to earn a chance to win an autographed copy of KA-CHING!, which is due out Spring '09.
Below you'll find lines from four Duhamel poems. You have to identify the name of the poem the lines were taken from. You should notice a theme around the lines selected----Denise selected the lines in honor of KA-CHING!'s release.
You have to identify 3 out of the 4 correctly to earn a chance to win an autographed KA-CHING! All answers should be sent in the body of an email to dustinvbrookshire@gmail.com with a subject line of "Denise Contest."
1.
I feel drunk when I spend too much money.
2.
After years of promoting glitzy consumerism,
Barbie decides to repent.
3.
You could stuff envelopes, a penny apiece,
in the privacy of your own home.
4.
but I wasn't sad that I wouldn't have the money to go to school tomorrow
or that my diet was shot and I actually remember feeling kind of rich
Happy Hunting!
Monday, September 22, 2008
"Dinner Party Horror" ~ Denise Duhamel
Dinner Party Horror
After dessert, my friends and I try to figure out the order in which we would die in a horror movie.
Stan, the aggressive male, would be murdered first. His macho-ness would lead him out into the woods or up into the attic, unprepared for what he'd find there. Chatty Peg would go next—too innocently boisterous. She'd walk right up to the killer and try to make friends. Then David would go, through no fault of his own, but because he's black—sorry to say, minorities never make it to the end of horror films. Susan would also meet a grisly fate because (she admits this herself) she's a bit of a slut and sluts are always punished in movies.
It's down to Mary and me—I think she'd be the lone survivor since she's the most likeable. She thinks I'd be the lone survivor since I'm the most likeable. And surely, if one of us were to die, it would be as she tried to save the other.
Then Stan says, Before you start congratulating yourselves, remember, one of your two bitches has to be the killer.
We are horrified. Did he really say bitches?
It's a joke, he assures us.
David chimes in, It's definitely an outside killer. Not Mary or Denise. Besides, Susan says her autopsy shows she was molested before she was butchered, so that means her killer was male, right?
Peg says Wait!—maybe Stan stabbed his twin right off to fool us, and he's not really dead, but has been lurking as the killer in the movie all along. Stan likes the idea of his character coming back in the final scene. David still thinks it's an outside job. Mary says the whole conversation is giving her the creeps. Anyway, she has to get up early in the morning. She gets up from the couch and reaches for her car keys.
Wait! Don't go out there alone!
I tried to warn her, but she wouldn't listen.
After dessert, my friends and I try to figure out the order in which we would die in a horror movie.
Stan, the aggressive male, would be murdered first. His macho-ness would lead him out into the woods or up into the attic, unprepared for what he'd find there. Chatty Peg would go next—too innocently boisterous. She'd walk right up to the killer and try to make friends. Then David would go, through no fault of his own, but because he's black—sorry to say, minorities never make it to the end of horror films. Susan would also meet a grisly fate because (she admits this herself) she's a bit of a slut and sluts are always punished in movies.
It's down to Mary and me—I think she'd be the lone survivor since she's the most likeable. She thinks I'd be the lone survivor since I'm the most likeable. And surely, if one of us were to die, it would be as she tried to save the other.
Then Stan says, Before you start congratulating yourselves, remember, one of your two bitches has to be the killer.
We are horrified. Did he really say bitches?
It's a joke, he assures us.
David chimes in, It's definitely an outside killer. Not Mary or Denise. Besides, Susan says her autopsy shows she was molested before she was butchered, so that means her killer was male, right?
Peg says Wait!—maybe Stan stabbed his twin right off to fool us, and he's not really dead, but has been lurking as the killer in the movie all along. Stan likes the idea of his character coming back in the final scene. David still thinks it's an outside job. Mary says the whole conversation is giving her the creeps. Anyway, she has to get up early in the morning. She gets up from the couch and reaches for her car keys.
Wait! Don't go out there alone!
I tried to warn her, but she wouldn't listen.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
For You Hookers, I Mean Facebook-ers
I created a Facebook Group titled Fans of Denise Duhamel OR A Group of Duhamalites. If you're on Facebook and enjoy the work of Denise Duhamel, well, you should this group ASAP. The exciting part about the group is I've started Denise's Question of the Month. Members of the group submit questions; one question will be answered each month by Denise, and I'll post the question with answer on the group page. (Cool beans, I know!)
Join the Fcebook Fan Pages I created in honor of:
Limp Wrist
Kim Addonizio
Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Dorianne Laux
Join the Fcebook Fan Pages I created in honor of:
Limp Wrist
Kim Addonizio
Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Dorianne Laux
Monday, August 18, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Finally!
The laptop is finally fixed, and I hope it will remain operational. Life has been a bitch since it hasn't been easy to use the internet or access documents. As long as the laptop cooperates I will be able to restart the Sunday Eye Candy series.
Limp Wrist #2 will go live toward the end of September. The second issue will feature an interview with the divine Denise Duhamel and work by Kurt Brown, Nick Carbo, Ellen Bass, Karen Chase, Khadijah Queen, and more. I'm excited about the second issue, and the third issue, which will go live Jan 09, is starting to take a nice shape.
The only stable part of my life life right now seems to be work and writing two to four poems a week. I meet with a fellow every couple of weeks; we chit-chat then move into critiquing work. Yesterday, we met and did our thing. She was able to help me put some "finishing" touches on three poems.
Well, off to do some reorganization as my new filing cabinet is calling my name.
Limp Wrist #2 will go live toward the end of September. The second issue will feature an interview with the divine Denise Duhamel and work by Kurt Brown, Nick Carbo, Ellen Bass, Karen Chase, Khadijah Queen, and more. I'm excited about the second issue, and the third issue, which will go live Jan 09, is starting to take a nice shape.
The only stable part of my life life right now seems to be work and writing two to four poems a week. I meet with a fellow every couple of weeks; we chit-chat then move into critiquing work. Yesterday, we met and did our thing. She was able to help me put some "finishing" touches on three poems.
Well, off to do some reorganization as my new filing cabinet is calling my name.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
"A Different Story" ~ Denise Duhamel ~ from APR
A Different Story
The day after I'd written a poem about her,
my new friend asks if I sometimes steal stories
from other people's lives. She doesn't know
many poets, but she once met a woman
who wrote self-help books about dating.
We're at a diner, where great stories
are often exchanged. The writer utilized
my new friend's tale of woe but made it even worse,
more embarrassing than it actually was.
I say writers are always stealing, we can't
help ourselves, and she says she understands
though it gives her the creeps. I don't confess
my own theft but instead tell her about a poet
whose ex writes thrillers. One of his recent characters
has her name, her physical traits, and her most
unflattering of habits. Worst of all, the character
is stabbed to death in the final chapter.
Writers must have a lot of issues, my new friend says, lifting
the limp pickles off the pale inside of her hamburger bun.
We both fall silent. She eyes me suspiciously
as she salts her fries. I stop asking her about her past,
about her day, fearing she'll tell me something so good
I'll be tempted to take it for another poem. Our diet cokes
are almost drained when she wonders if the poet,
having suffered her own fictional fatality,
has changed her ways, has stopped using her friends
as subject matter. Imagine how you'd feel
if someone recreated your life and it wasn't very pretty.
I start to write the poem in my head, the one
describing my blubber, my crowded teeth, my penchant
for gossip, the smell of my feet after a long day
in plastic sandals. My character is cheap,
fearful, controlling, duplicitous, a dunce.
Want to split a slice of pie? I think she says,
but I am already slapping a twenty
on the Formica table, sliding out of the booth.
I have to get it all down before someone else does.
by Denise Duhamel
(borrowed from APR)
The day after I'd written a poem about her,
my new friend asks if I sometimes steal stories
from other people's lives. She doesn't know
many poets, but she once met a woman
who wrote self-help books about dating.
We're at a diner, where great stories
are often exchanged. The writer utilized
my new friend's tale of woe but made it even worse,
more embarrassing than it actually was.
I say writers are always stealing, we can't
help ourselves, and she says she understands
though it gives her the creeps. I don't confess
my own theft but instead tell her about a poet
whose ex writes thrillers. One of his recent characters
has her name, her physical traits, and her most
unflattering of habits. Worst of all, the character
is stabbed to death in the final chapter.
Writers must have a lot of issues, my new friend says, lifting
the limp pickles off the pale inside of her hamburger bun.
We both fall silent. She eyes me suspiciously
as she salts her fries. I stop asking her about her past,
about her day, fearing she'll tell me something so good
I'll be tempted to take it for another poem. Our diet cokes
are almost drained when she wonders if the poet,
having suffered her own fictional fatality,
has changed her ways, has stopped using her friends
as subject matter. Imagine how you'd feel
if someone recreated your life and it wasn't very pretty.
I start to write the poem in my head, the one
describing my blubber, my crowded teeth, my penchant
for gossip, the smell of my feet after a long day
in plastic sandals. My character is cheap,
fearful, controlling, duplicitous, a dunce.
Want to split a slice of pie? I think she says,
but I am already slapping a twenty
on the Formica table, sliding out of the booth.
I have to get it all down before someone else does.
by Denise Duhamel
(borrowed from APR)
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Exciting Limp Wrist News....
After my post about the LW non profit fundraising campaign, I received an email from a friend saying she would gladly handle the paperwork to establish LW as a non profit. I am thrilled and thankful.
I'll keep everyone updated as progress is made!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Celebrating National Poetry Month ~ Denise Duhamel
In honor of National Poetry Month, enjoy this Denise Duhamel poem:
Chlamydia
for K.
Sex was as beautiful as flowers.
The orchid unfolding between his legs,
the baby's breath on his chest,
the blue bells under his arms.
Tea roses on your nightgown,
and, of course, you would have wanted him:
the only boy at camp who didn't vie to tie your underwear to a tree,
who instead folded it neatly and hid it
so you'd later find it under your pillow.
Although he could have, he didn't follow tradition
and read your letters -- he secured them,
along with your diary, between your mattress
and the cot springs. The only boy who gave you privacy.
So you gave him yourself. At sixteen,
you'd collected all the pamphlets. You knew
about the pill, nonoxynol-9 and condoms.
Still, sex was as delicate as flowers.
An infection, like the limp cactus
I watered too much in the glass terrarium
my first boyfriend gave me.
Maybe your sex could not take so much love.
Maybe your sex needed to be diluted
with sketchier pasts, a stronger fear of AIDS,
a few more seeds of mistrust. Or maybe,
more simply, it wasn't your fault. Chlamydia
is easily treated, the doctor assures you
although now your mother must know
and your father, too, with whom you haven't spoken
in months. I stood holding you once
when you were just a baby, your diaper
in the crook of my elbow, and I was counting
the days, longing to be a teenager.
I said I had the back of your head
with my other hand, no problem,
because I really thought I had -- and, besides,
anyone could take care of a little kid.
But when I took my hand away from your neck
just a second, you flipped backwards
like a blossoming bud a movie camera had captured
on high-speed film. Your mother caught you
and held you for the rest of the day.
The doctor says you are not pregnant,
the yellow pollens whirling
outside the girls' tent. The sleeping bags
stacked and rolled up tight
like the whorls of petals, rolled up unfairly tight
and meant only for one.
from Smile
Chlamydia
for K.
Sex was as beautiful as flowers.
The orchid unfolding between his legs,
the baby's breath on his chest,
the blue bells under his arms.
Tea roses on your nightgown,
and, of course, you would have wanted him:
the only boy at camp who didn't vie to tie your underwear to a tree,
who instead folded it neatly and hid it
so you'd later find it under your pillow.
Although he could have, he didn't follow tradition
and read your letters -- he secured them,
along with your diary, between your mattress
and the cot springs. The only boy who gave you privacy.
So you gave him yourself. At sixteen,
you'd collected all the pamphlets. You knew
about the pill, nonoxynol-9 and condoms.
Still, sex was as delicate as flowers.
An infection, like the limp cactus
I watered too much in the glass terrarium
my first boyfriend gave me.
Maybe your sex could not take so much love.
Maybe your sex needed to be diluted
with sketchier pasts, a stronger fear of AIDS,
a few more seeds of mistrust. Or maybe,
more simply, it wasn't your fault. Chlamydia
is easily treated, the doctor assures you
although now your mother must know
and your father, too, with whom you haven't spoken
in months. I stood holding you once
when you were just a baby, your diaper
in the crook of my elbow, and I was counting
the days, longing to be a teenager.
I said I had the back of your head
with my other hand, no problem,
because I really thought I had -- and, besides,
anyone could take care of a little kid.
But when I took my hand away from your neck
just a second, you flipped backwards
like a blossoming bud a movie camera had captured
on high-speed film. Your mother caught you
and held you for the rest of the day.
The doctor says you are not pregnant,
the yellow pollens whirling
outside the girls' tent. The sleeping bags
stacked and rolled up tight
like the whorls of petals, rolled up unfairly tight
and meant only for one.
from Smile
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