American Poetry Now: Pitt Poetry Series Anthology

Sandra Kohler

0 4 sandra kohLer Sandra Kohleristheauthorof TheCeremoniesof Longing,winnerof the AssociatedWritingProgramsPoetryPrize,andTheCountryof Women.She hastaughtextensivelyatlevelsfromelementarytouniversity.Therecipient of numerousawards,sheliveswithherhusbandinSelinsgrove,incentral Pennsylvania. 0 4 sandra kohLer The Game Marchenters,tossinganddrenchingwinter’sdrysticks. Thenewsof amarriage,of thewarending,seemstories madeuptogowiththeweather.BecauseitisMarch,because itismorning,inthethawedmud,inculvertsunderstrata of oakleaveslaiddownbyautumnstorms,somethingis stirring:thehotgreenbladesof crocuses.Unexpectedemergence, likethecellardooropeningandamandragginghisbikeout intothedimsunlight,themildair.Everydaythepossibility opensof somenewloss.Thetwosquirrelschasingeachother upanddownthebareoakplaytheirgameasif itwerelife anddeathandgameatthesametime,asitiswhenIplay, tossingawayaprizethatmeansnothingandeverything. Likeachildlearningtoskate,Ifalloverandoverinto thesamedelusionandasIfall,see,no,notagain.Now iswhenIwanttoliveforever:thismorning,thismoment. The Pond Whydoesamandecidetobuildapond onthelandof ahousehe’splanning tosell,aVermontschoolhouse?Tooashamed of thisdecisiontotellhiswifeof fortyyears, hecallsthecontractor,hireshim, commitshimself,hisshameequaled byhisinsistentwill:thispondmustbe. Heshoulddigthepondhimself:fire thecontractor,sendawaythebulldozer, thebackhoe,begintospadethethinhard dirtof Vermontfarmlandcoveringtheribs of stoneunderneaththewayskincovers anoldstringyhorse.Thepondwillcome fromthebellyof thefarm,theloosebowl of itspelvis.Earthundertheharddrysoil willturnmuddy,dense,notfriable,still 0 4 sandra kohLer hostiletothespade,studdedwithrocks. Itwilltakedaystogetdowntowater. Thismanneedstotakedays.Heneeds tosweatinthehotthinOctobersunlight, thedaysthatstartincoldfog,burningoff slowly,thengettinghotterandhotter; hisbody,coldinthemorning,movingslowly, bynoonhittingarhythmheputsaside, sittingdown,hisbackagainstatree,toeat bread,todrink.Thenintheshortafternoon, fourhothours,sweatingandbending, hisbodyfindingsomethinghethought ithadlost.Hemustsweatitout of himself,createthepond,diggingit outof theearth,outof hisbody. The End of the Gulf War Theauntscan’tbelievethewarisover.Myhusband’s aunts,eighty-eightandseventy-seven,eachlivinginher widowedhousewithinmilesof thefarmtheywerebornon: survivorsof aharshchildhoodamongsiblingswhodidn’tall livetoadulthood;marriagesthatspannedadepression,wars; eachtheloss,withinmonths,tenyearsago,of herhusband. Nowtheauntsletustakethemouttodinner.AuntFrances slipsintoourHonda’sbackseatlikeagirl,AuntMurlineneeds helpgettingherbadlegoverwhatshecallsarunningboard— likeahorsetoooldtoliftitslegtobeshoed,shesays.Wedrive tothecheaprestaurantwithitsmoreorlesshonestDutchfood wheretheyeatalittle,alwayshavedessert,talkalittle,andsteal thecheck.AuntMurlinewondersif she’lldiewaitingfortheMoravian Hometofindroomforher;shecan’tbearanothersummerin herMainStreethouse,alreadysoldtothebanknextdoor. They’lltearitdownforaparkinglotamonthaftershe’sout. Wetalkaboutherplansto“makesale”upattheauctionhouse; wetalkaboutthewar.Theauntscan’tbelievethewarisover, 0 4 sandra kohLer hostiletothespade,studdedwithrocks. Itwilltakedaystogetdowntowater. Thismanneedstotakedays.Heneeds tosweatinthehotthinOctobersunlight, thedaysthatstartincoldfog,burningoff slowly,thengettinghotterandhotter; hisbody,coldinthemorning,movingslowly, bynoonhittingarhythmheputsaside, sittingdown,hisbackagainstatree,toeat bread,todrink.Thenintheshortafternoon, fourhothours,sweatingandbending, hisbodyfindingsomethinghethought ithadlost.Hemustsweatitout of himself,createthepond,diggingit outof theearth,outof hisbody. The End of the Gulf War Theauntscan’tbelievethewarisover.Myhusband’s aunts,eighty-eightandseventy-seven,eachlivinginher widowedhousewithinmilesof thefarmtheywerebornon: survivorsof aharshchildhoodamongsiblingswhodidn’tall livetoadulthood;marriagesthatspannedadepression,wars; eachtheloss,withinmonths,tenyearsago,of herhusband. Nowtheauntsletustakethemouttodinner.AuntFrances slipsintoourHonda’sbackseatlikeagirl,AuntMurlineneeds helpgettingherbadlegoverwhatshecallsarunningboard— likeahorsetoooldtoliftitslegtobeshoed,shesays.Wedrive tothecheaprestaurantwithitsmoreorlesshonestDutchfood wheretheyeatalittle,alwayshavedessert,talkalittle,andsteal thecheck.AuntMurlinewondersif she’lldiewaitingfortheMoravian Hometofindroomforher;shecan’tbearanothersummerin herMainStreethouse,alreadysoldtothebanknextdoor. They’lltearitdownforaparkinglotamonthaftershe’sout. Wetalkaboutherplansto“makesale”upattheauctionhouse; wetalkaboutthewar.Theauntscan’tbelievethewarisover, 0 4 sandra kohLer it’salwaysbeenunrealtothem,violatingtheirsenseof what theworldislike:weactandact,untouchedbyconsequence, proudof doingwellwhatweshouldnotdoatall. Tea Theskysteeping,darkbrew, themorningstarbrilliantandalone. Asenseof disorder.Theteaturns greenatthehorizon,overheadorange, mauve.Nightswhatkeepsmeawake isarefusaltogivein,allowtheday toend.IdreamI’minNewZealand— purpleskies,thunderousocean. Standingonlinetosee“Waitingfor Godot”Ifindit’sbecomeJapan. Isquatatthefrontof thetinytheatre withamanI’vemetinthequeue,tell himI’mhappilymarriedbutlonely— myhusband’sawayforamonth. HethinksI’mneglectedandIexplain weeachdothethingswewantnottodie withouthavingdone.Onstagethereis anothersky:turbulentseaof cloud, seamsandlayers,troughs.Coffeearrives, timeisshort.Ican’tkeepawake.Ilisten, Ispeak;it’sonlyaquestionof language. Iwanttobesnowboundandcloudfree atonce:winddriven,deeprooted. Onthegarageroof there’sapatchof snowliketheonewhiteblotchon ablackcow’sflank,circle,symbol. Thewoodsareadarkhusband, themeadowthewhiteghostof abridespectralandwaiting. 0 4 sandra kohLer it’salwaysbeenunrealtothem,violatingtheirsenseof what theworldislike:weactandact,untouchedbyconsequence, proudof doingwellwhatweshouldnotdoatall. Tea Theskysteeping,darkbrew, themorningstarbrilliantandalone. Asenseof disorder.Theteaturns greenatthehorizon,overheadorange, mauve.Nightswhatkeepsmeawake isarefusaltogivein,allowtheday toend.IdreamI’minNewZealand— purpleskies,thunderousocean. Standingonlinetosee“Waitingfor Godot”Ifindit’sbecomeJapan. Isquatatthefrontof thetinytheatre withamanI’vemetinthequeue,tell himI’mhappilymarriedbutlonely— myhusband’sawayforamonth. HethinksI’mneglectedandIexplain weeachdothethingswewantnottodie withouthavingdone.Onstagethereis anothersky:turbulentseaof cloud, seamsandlayers,troughs.Coffeearrives, timeisshort.Ican’tkeepawake.Ilisten, Ispeak;it’sonlyaquestionof language. Iwanttobesnowboundandcloudfree atonce:winddriven,deeprooted. Onthegarageroof there’sapatchof snowliketheonewhiteblotchon ablackcow’sflank,circle,symbol. Thewoodsareadarkhusband, themeadowthewhiteghostof abridespectralandwaiting. 0 4 sandra kohLer Write IcanneverwriteonthedaysIhavetowalkacross thesquaretobuycigarettes. —soMerset MaughaM Thankyou,Ina,forsendingmethisfineexcusefor theinexhaustiblepossibilitiesof laziness, theunwillingnessof bodyandspirittowrite. Thedesirefordensebread,thedesirefor sleep,thedesireforworktobeeasy—no,hard, butclear,glassy,transparent,all-revealing. Theworkisaseriesof counterpanes,blankets youlift,asif lookingfortheprincess’spea.One day,it’sapairof shoesI’velost:greensuede,but whenIfindthem,they’regold;transformedlike theortsImakepoems:pleasure,lifeanddeath. If theshoefits,I’llgetunderthecoversand waittobetransformed,hagintoqueen.I’mwearing whitetaffeta,adresssouglyIputonateeshirt tocoverit.Iwillbuyblackclothes,Iwillteach astronomy,Iwillstopaccountingformyself. Angeringmymother,Imakeragdollsoutof thefamily’ssecretbones.Iamhaulingmyself from onefloortoanotherof ahugewarehousefullof shorted-outmachinery,inacageIoperatebypulley, bearingmyownweight,theweightof thecage. It’shardtodoitallinonetrip.Thereisonly onetriptodoitin.Wewearthechainsweforge inlife,MissBerylremindsus.Encaged,jewels inasetting.Onyx,amethyst,chalcedony, Canajewelmakeitscagegolden? Iamwritingfortime,clarity,thelucidityof parsed moments.Iamwritingtoleaveasmallfossilthat saysIlivedpressedintothemediumthatkilledme. ...