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Memory, and: Etymology, and: Boy with Flowers, and: Night Around Me
- Prairie Schooner
- University of Nebraska Press
- Volume 79, Number 2, Summer 2005
- pp. 132-137
- 10.1353/psg.2005.0088
- Article
- Additional Information
- Purchase/rental options available:
Prairie Schooner 79.2 (2005) 132-137
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Four Poems
J. Ely Shipley
Memory
When I was four, a man
selling flowers on an island in the center
of a city street, leaned into my father's
car window and placed one in
my hair. More than petals, I rememberthe dirt beneath his nails
as if he'd just pulled those flowers
from a garden, and for me only. My father
drove forward, his eyes
flashing quicklyin the rear view mirror. Pale
seeds, or tiny eggs left blind
in an abandoned nest. Tonight
the scent of burning sageblossoms over the boulevard
and lip of shore. A man bundles
the dried leaves with colored thread: blue,
red, gold. His handsare quick and open. And the smoke
touches me, brushes
through my hair its grey wing. [End Page 132]
Etymology
Testosterone, strange that you'd let me
give birth
to my own bodyeven though I know I've always been
a boy, moving
toward what? Manhood? A constantpuberty? I could replace my menses
with a thick needle
filled with your fluid, thrust everytwo weeks the rest of my life
into my thigh. And I think
of the six days of creation beforegod rested, because I too am tired
and because my voice, would it suddenly be
god-like to me, thundering,waking in a deep vibrato as if from atop
a mountain, maybe Olympus, maybe
a lightning bolt shot sharpthrough my heart because I am
startled, scared, delighted? Testosterone,
you are the MagneticFields, Elvis, and molasses, the first time
I heard Nina Simone sing, unsure of her
and my own sex at age 13. You are [End Page 133]an eighteen-wheeler ripping through
a hail storm, the umpire breathing
over the catcher's shoulder untilthe ball burns into the mitt
and there is the deep growl
ascending, Strike one!And I am struck
hard by the beauty of you. I am
again an eight-year-old boy, simplyadmiring a tree in the school-yard, my only
friend, who lifts me
and lifts me so that I can pickits single spring
flower, the lowest one, maybe
for my mother, maybe my father –but end up placing it inside
my first and only dictionary, a gift
from my father on the first dayof that school year. And later
when it has dried, wilted, I
remove it. Only a stain left, smallshadow, the handprint
of a child quieting the words
it covers, tucks into hismemory, already knows by heart,
and keeps there, where they wait for him
until he is ready. [End Page 134]
Boy with Flowers
My aunt loved me, asked me:
will you be the flower
girl at my wedding? But I'm not
a girl, I argued, and she persuaded me:
you'll get to throw rose petalsonto the aisle, walk before me, both of us
crushing them beneath our feet, my gown
dragging over them. I agreed, I wanted
nothing but chivalry.At the church, my mother and I
waited in the small room. She brushed
my aunt's hair until the dress arrived.
Isn't it beautiful? And I agreed until they tried
to put me in it. I'd seen my fatherand uncle earlier, standing in a circle
of other men, smoke hovering over their heads, a halo,
and their voices kind, quiet, and deep. I told my aunt –
I want to wear a suit like them! She promisedif I wore the dress I could wear anything
I wanted after: army pants, a sheriff
badge, cowboy hat, and pistols. My mother shot her
a look in the mirror where we posed, both of them
angelic in white, and me, not yet dressed,half naked. Today I wake from another dream
in which I have a beard, no breasts
and am about to go skinny dipping
on a foreign beach with four other men. [End Page 135]I'm afraid to undress, won't take off my...