American Poetry Now: Pitt Poetry Series Anthology

Maggie Anderson

Maggie Andersonistheauthorof fourbooksof poems:Windfall:New andSelectedPoems, ASpaceFilledwithMoving,ColdComfort,and MaggieAnderson: GreatestHits1984–2004.Sheistheeditororcoeditorof severalbooks, includingHillDaughter,thenewandselectedpoemsof LouiseMcNeill.She hasreceivedfellowshipsfromtheNationalEndowmentfortheArts,the OhioArtsCouncil,andtheWestVirginiaArtsandHumanitiesCommission. Sheisthedirectorandamemberof thefacultyintheNortheastOhioMFA programatKentStateUniversity,whereshealsodirectstheWickPoetry CenterandeditstheWickPoetrySeriesof theKentStateUniversityPress.  4 Maggie anderson Spitting in the Leaves InSpanishburgthereareboysintightjeans, mudontheircowboybootsandtheywearhugehats withfeathers,skunkfeatherstheytellme. Theydonotwanttobeinschool,butare. Someteachercaredenoughtoholdthem.Unlike theirthindisheveledcousins,theboysonMatoaka’s MainStreetinOctoberwholollagainstparkingmeters andspitintotheleaves.Becauseof them,someone willthinkweneedawar,willthinkthebestsolution wouldbeforthemtotaketheirhatsandfeathers, theirgoodcountrymannersanddragthemoff somewhere, toVietnam,toElSalvador.Andthey’llgo. They’llgofromWestVirginia,fromhillsandbackroads thattwistlikepoliticsthroughtrees,andthey’llfight, notbecausetheyknowwhatforbutbecausewhattheyknow ishowtofight.Whattheyknowisfeathers, theirstrongskinnyarms,theirspitting intheleaves. Heart Fire Threemonthssinceyouryoungsonshothimself and,of course,nooneknowswhy.ItwasOctober. Maybehewasfollowingthesmellof dyingleaves orthewarmthof thefireintheheart,sohard tolocateinacountryalwaysreadyingforwar. Oneafternoonwesattogetheronyourfloor,drinking teaandlisteningtoBrahmsontheradio.Hewould havelikedthismusic,youtoldme.Hewouldhaveliked everythingIlikenowandwhathewouldn’tlikeIdon’t likeeither.Hehasmadethewholeworldlooklikehim. Today,drivingintoPittsburgh,Iseeyouareright. TheskyiscoldbluelikeashirtIoncesawhim  4 Maggie anderson wearandthebaretreesaredark,likehishair. Iseehowvulnerablethegrassesare,paleandflimsy bytheroadsides,tryingtostandstraightinthewind. AtCanonsburg,allthepinkandgreenandpurplehouses havethesameslantof roof towardthehill,liketoys becauseI’mthinkingaboutchildren,howsometimes wewanttogivethemupif theyseemoddanddistant, yetevenif theydiebeforeus,wecannotletthemgo. IseeyoursoninlandscapesasIdrive,inatwist of lightbehindabarnbeforethesuburbsstart, orunderasuburbanstreetlightwhereatallboy withabasketballhaslimbslikethosehehadjust outgrown.BecauseIwanttothinkhe’snotalone Iinventforhimaheartfireeventheunenlightened livingaresometimesallowedtosee.Itburnspast thewhitefluorescenceof thecity,pastthesteelmills workingoff andonastheytellusweneed,ordon’t need,heavyindustryforfuel,orwar.Yourson keepsmecompany,drivingdownthelasthillinto Pittsburgh,inthetunnelasIpushforgoodposition inthelanes.HeiswithmeasIspottheshinycables of thebridgeandgeardown,asallthelightsbeyond therivercomeonnow,acrosshissafe,perfectedface. Long Story Tospeakinaflatvoice IsallthatIcando. —JaMes Wright, “speak” IneedtotellyouthatIliveinasmalltown inWestVirginiayouwouldnotknowabout. Itisoneof theplacesIthinkof ashome. WhenIgoforawalk,Itakemybassethound whosesadeyesandungainlinessalwaysdraw  4 Maggie anderson wearandthebaretreesaredark,likehishair. Iseehowvulnerablethegrassesare,paleandflimsy bytheroadsides,tryingtostandstraightinthewind. AtCanonsburg,allthepinkandgreenandpurplehouses havethesameslantof roof towardthehill,liketoys becauseI’mthinkingaboutchildren,howsometimes wewanttogivethemupif theyseemoddanddistant, yetevenif theydiebeforeus,wecannotletthemgo. IseeyoursoninlandscapesasIdrive,inatwist of lightbehindabarnbeforethesuburbsstart, orunderasuburbanstreetlightwhereatallboy withabasketballhaslimbslikethosehehadjust outgrown.BecauseIwanttothinkhe’snotalone Iinventforhimaheartfireeventheunenlightened livingaresometimesallowedtosee.Itburnspast thewhitefluorescenceof thecity,pastthesteelmills workingoff andonastheytellusweneed,ordon’t need,heavyindustryforfuel,orwar.Yourson keepsmecompany,drivingdownthelasthillinto Pittsburgh,inthetunnelasIpushforgoodposition inthelanes.HeiswithmeasIspottheshinycables of thebridgeandgeardown,asallthelightsbeyond therivercomeonnow,acrosshissafe,perfectedface. Long Story Tospeakinaflatvoice IsallthatIcando. —JaMes Wright, “speak” IneedtotellyouthatIliveinasmalltown inWestVirginiayouwouldnotknowabout. Itisoneof theplacesIthinkof ashome. WhenIgoforawalk,Itakemybassethound whosesadeyesandungainlinessalwaysdraw  4 Maggie anderson acrowdof children.Shetoleratesanything thatseemstobeaffection,sosheletsthekids putscarvesandskicapsonherhead untilshestartstoresemblethewomenwhohavetodress fromrummagesalesinpoverty’smismatchedpolyester. ThedogandItrailthecreekbankwiththekids, pastclapboardrowhouseswithChristmasseals pastedtothewindowsasadecoration. Inside,televisionglowsaroundthevinylchairs andcurledlinoleum,andwewatchsomeoneold perambulatingtothekitchenonashinywalker. Upthehillintown,twostoreshavebeen boardedupbesidetheyouthcenterandminers withamputatedlimbsareloiteringoutside theHeartandHand.TheywearCatdieselcaps andspitintothestreet.Thewind carrieson,whiningthroughthealleys, rustlingdownthesidewalks,agitating leaves,andcirclingthecourthousesteps pastthetoothlessFieldsisterswholean againsttheflagpoleholdingpaperbags of chestnutstheybringtotowntosell. Historyisonelongstoryof whathappenedtous, anditsrhythmsarelocaldialectandanecdote. InWestVirginiaagoodstorytakesawhile, andif ithaspeopleinit,youhavetoswear thatitistrue.Itellthekidstheoneabout myUncleCraigwhosawthemountainmove soquicklyandsocertainlyitmadethesun standinadifferentaspecttohislittletown untilitrearrangeditself andsettleddownagain. Thiswashisfavoritestory.Whenhegotold, hemixeditupwithbaseballgames,hisshiftboss pushingscabsthroughapicketline,theMasons inwhiteapronsatafuneral,butheremembered everythingthateverhappened,andheknewhowfar helivedfromanywhereyouwouldhaveheardof.  4 Maggie anderson Anythingthathappensherehasalotof versions, howtogetfromheretoLogantwentydifferentways. Thekidstellmeconvolutedcountrystories fullof snuff andbracken,abouthowlong theysatquietinthedeerblindwiththeirfathers waitingfortheten-pointbuckthatgotaway. Theyliketotalkabouttheweather, howthewindwe’rewalkinginmeansrain, howthefloodpushedcattlefifteenmilesdownriver. Thesekidsknowminesliketheyknowhounddogs andhowthesirensblowwhensomething’swrong. Theyknowtheblast,andthestories,how thegrown-upsdropwhatevertheyaredoing togetoutthere.Storyisshaped bysound,anditstructureswhatweknow. Theytoldmethis,andthreeof them sworeitwastrue,soI’lltellyou eventhoughIknowyoudonotknow thisplace,orhowtightanddarkthehills pullinaroundtheriverandtherailroad. I’llsayitasthechildrenspokeit, intheflatvoiceof mypeople: downinBooneCounty,theysealedup fortyminersinafire.Themenwhohadcome tohelptriedandtriedtogetdowntothem, butitwasabigfireandtherewasdanger, sotheyhadtoturnaround andshovelthembackin.Allnightlong theystoodoutsidewithuselesspicksandaxes intheirhands,juststaringatthedriftmouth. Here’sthething:whatthesoundmusthavebeen, allthosefiretrucksandambulances,thesirens, andthewomencryingandscreamingout thenamesof theirburiedones,whomusthave calledbackuptothemfromdeepinside theburningmountain,rightuptotheend.  4 Maggie anderson Black Dog Goes to Art Colony Ilikeithere.Ilikeithere.Theydothingsinpacks. Atnighttheypiletogetheronthefloor. Iliedownontheleatherjacketsandboots andtheskinnytiesIsinkmyteethintoandshake. Tonight,asusual,theyarelisteningtosomeonetalk. Itrackthesmells:linseedoilandminkoil, bagbalm,gasolineandtar,cigarettes. Tallthinmansmell,cologneandsweat. Greatbigwomansmell,plastic,powderandpastries. Thatwoman’sstilltalkingandnowthey’vegotafiregoing, smokeandpineandburningsap,andsulfur. It’sthefiremakesthemwanttodrowseandpetadog. Imovetooneside,thentheother,tocatchthepetters withsofthands,roughhands,shirtcuffs,sweaters. Theguywiththepickuptrucktakesmewithhimtothedump; otherwiseIdon’thavetoomanydutieshere. I’vefoundmyplacetosettleamongthebrassstuds andtheleather,theelbowsandkneeswhere I’mwaitingfortheshoetodrop,forthetalktostop, forthemtowhistleandclapforme, tocallmyname,gooddog,gooddog. Self-Portrait Iwasfaroutsidetheframe,beyond thepale,lostinthemargins,smudged likeafingerprintandfrankly,nervous aboutholdingmyown.Iknewwhatwascoming: you,towardme,yourarmsopen, preparingtowrapthemaroundmyneck withthecleardeterminationsomepeople bringtolearninganthropology.Iwasnot abouttobemoved,tobesweptoff myfeet byyourexoticbracelets.I’lladmit Isometimesinclinetoward  4 Maggie anderson theminuteparticularsof ascene butneverhaveIbeenundonebyawoman onaccountof heraccessories.Untilnow, whenIcomeintothepicture,captivated byblackcoralbeads,thegoldwireof anearring, therustleof redscarf againstaneckline, asthispull,thisgreattugatmyheart, forkliftsmeintotheforeground atthecenterof aphotograph of emptybeach,emptythatisexceptfor you,andpineandmanzanita, thesilverringsandnecklacesof whitesurf.  4 Maggie anderson ...