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  • [Books]
    • The Book of Fools: An Essay in Memoir and Verse
    • Nude Descending an Empire
    • Body of the World
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*read horizontal on phone*
​

ORIGINAL SIN

I.

There is no way, as a child, to be prepared,
            or to recognize in time to defend ourselves,
                        that we have arrived in an imperfect world
in which everyone, even those we most love, 
            is speckled with some gross failing (forever
                        beyond the ken of their rehabilitation) 
that requires we strive to understand
            something about their life in order to
                        forgive them, like sending out taproots 
into the wet or parched soil where they’ve come from, 
            feeling spread toes inside the bamboo
                        and the barrel cactus, some fault 
that begs we imagine the moon-phase mineral events 
            and thoughts settling one by one like feathers 
                        in the staircase of their spine’s logic,
and to do this again and again 
            for many seasons, expecting no other progress, 
                        and we slowly learn to do this 
and then only this, because we understand it is necessary 
            and that we ourselves require it
                        because before we could begin to defend ourselves 
from a world of fault, we were already its next of kin, 
            its inheritor and progenitor, unwittingly, 
                        unknowingly at first, and then gradually 
awakening one by one to our errors
            as they touched each thing in our house, 
                        as they bruised, however slightly, 
each face we love.


II.

Near the end, when my mother’s universe
            was becoming the bedroom of a house she rented 
                        for her death and also the path 
to the bathroom where she’d give herself 
            enemas or vomit beside little lavender 
                        gift soaps and bath salts, a woman named Janice, 
who had once been her close friend and then 
            had “turned” against her in a power struggle 
                        among local midwives, returned
and gave my mom an iris plant.  
            And it was lovely there beside the bed, 
                        taking no notice of death, flowering,
as we came and went with carrot juice, smaller 
            and smaller portions of food, and then finally
                        only chocolate covered almonds,
as faces rose like coins from the bottom of a fountain 
            to sit beside her and talk about whatever 
                        they could think to talk about
with a woman who was dying, the iris 
            kept flowering.  It seemed almost eternal, 
                        its purple petals still administering some last rite 
of color, when we found her, arm flung-out 
            over the bedside, palm upright, in mid-air
                        half-fisted beside the iris, as if unsure 
whether to release or cling to this world 
            as she departed.  And two days after the funeral— 
                        my older sister and I still in that foreign house 
packing up the remnants of my mother’s life— 
            Janice came back.  Except, because as a girl Polio 
                        had nearly killed her, leaving her 
obese and crutch-bound, she sent her daughter 
            to the door.  So that it was her daughter’s 
                        black hair, soft as riverwater, 
that no man had ever grasped as he came inside her; 
            it was her young eyes, like horses’ eyes, 
                        that knew nothing of this world
that stood there, while her mother waited 
            in the mini-van, engine idling, 
                        stood there, dutifully, before my sister and me, 
and asked to have the iris back.


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  • *
  • [Books]
    • The Book of Fools: An Essay in Memoir and Verse
    • Nude Descending an Empire
    • Body of the World
  • [Poems]
  • [About]
  • [contact]