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  • What the Child Was Given Next, and: Damsel, stage directions, and: From a Dance Manual, and: Singing the Cannonball to Sleep
  • Stacy Gnall (bio)

What the Child Was Given Next

This is the thanks she gets.The dark. And the unknown

goings-on as the eye adjusts.Her foundling fright on all fours. [End Page 104] This is what she gets.For trusting the beastly embezzler,

for having the sweetest ingredient among the trees:what's soft and tropical under a frock.

This is what.To sit in his breadbox,

a stone, a callow Jonah,now solemn as if going to school.

She is thinking of her sampler.She is whiling away the hours,

sees each stitch in the linefrom scripture, the stomach now

skeins of skin, brocade.She is reciting the names of days.

She is walking heart first into the forest.

That every one may receive the things donein his body according to that he hath done.

Yes, this. But what thanksthat when the hunter comes,

though both red,the heart will come after the head.

That when the hunter comesto slit the snarl from where it wells,

this will be she: from the bowelsa rouge bowl to be dipped and dipped from. [End Page 105]

Damsel, stage directions

She must wakein a place she doesn't recognize—

bound, surrounded by debrisof other lives—find her way out.

She must have brokenaway from the group—

naive as the number one,naive as she is half-naked

and barefoot now—runningwith a limp (injury implied),

a bruise slung mink-wiseabout her neck.

She must fall just once in the chaseover bramble, antler, root—

the scene around herdizzy, a revolving door—

stupefied by the settingsun and the birds

in on it too, throwingtheir voices, trying to confuse.

She must glance alwaysover her shoulder,

trying in gasps to lose him,to outsmart the lunatic [End Page 106]

trees, her face fallow,unfurnished, a puddle with nothing

to reflect—glancing—the fish rolling back in her eye's

blank lakes—glance—the moona fat, white mosquito bite

itching her on to whereshe ends at an edge of road,

spots a truck's grillwavering lazy in the horizon's heat,

laughing a little,coughing up berry-worths of blood

and muttering what she canonly muster, sputtering into the cement,

into the dense, senselessair of Texas, I made it. [End Page 107]

From a Dance Manual

For my fatherTreat me nice, treat me good, treat me like you really should.'Cause I'm not made of wood. And I don't have a wooden heart.–Elvis Presley

Snip the cranky thing from its crib.Rest its potato-scented head against your lapel

and carry its teacup weight, the world'syoungest antique in your arms.

Then permit the rug your promenade.Follow invisible dance map feet.

Behändel sie gut.

Sing, scavenger of the lowest notes.Make your way through the German verse,

that bit of violence in the back of your throat.Behändel sie gut, Behändel sie gut.

On TV, the second shuttle's success.Outside, the ambient logic of snow.You've lost your job. You dance.

Past the mantel's burden, past each bashful knickknack.Hum, and she will grow to be gruff enough.

Past the blue-gray glances from the photographs.Bellow, and she will be burr fierce. Coo.

Past the wreath, the hearth, the paisleys in their frenzyon the ironing board, sway. [End Page 108]

And she will chase ghosts and wolves away.Twist, and men will treat her well. Whirl.

Past the patience of the piebald hobbyhorse,treat her good, treat her good.

Sing, and the thing will fossilize.Dance, and it will petrify.

Her heart will be a beating bit of bark.

Behändel sie gut.Treat her good, and it will turn into wood.

Singing the Cannonball to Sleep

At night, he sleeps with his mouth just openand his helmet fastened tight.

See how he hugs his knees—harm hibernating in his hands there,always prepared to give the ready sign...

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