A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry

Katie Smith Says, “A Woman’s Body is a Battleground. I Should Know.”

118 A Face to Meet the Faces Katie Smith Says, “A Woman’s Body is a Battleground. I Should Know.” Arielle Greenberg After I was killed they found the perfect nursery, all complete: soft-backed rocker, the uneasy bones of the changing table draped in lotions, stacks of flannel squares like milk teeth lined in gum-pink silk. This is the room to which I would lure her, my full blossom, my fat thing, so I could cut the baby out to be my valentine. I called her to pick up some misdelivered things, gifts we both would need. I took her almost name, so we could be the twins we were meant to be. When she came, I faked a deep chorus of rupture, hurried her in, doubled over. Like one who knew. I locked the door. Set at her with my knife-arms. Clapped my hand to her mouth. It was to be a kiss. But biology knows a secret it keeps from the honor roll: intuition. Self-preservation. Survival. Adrenaline, that makes the blood go round the clock. Under my big shirt I had only a toy soldier’s heart, melting in tin. Under hers, the real deal, so she fought back and finished me. Also, there’s the trick of melatonin. The sun sees better those with babies, loves them, damages them, little rivulets of spider blood in their fucking lucky faces. Breaking them down, thickening their skin. I was and am pale as bird’s-eye. 119 Fifteen Easy Minutes If I kept animals they would have known, too, and left me be like the soft wolf cast out of the herd. The dogs all follow the chosen ones, the swollen, furrow into their pussies, hunting heat and colostrum. Neighbors, though, are stupid, and believed me. I had a victory garden registry, all the bounty of sterile bottles and waterproof sheeting, tiny silver scissors and nasal bulbs, plastic nipples to keep the outlets at bay, desires waiting to be harvested. I will need these things, I told them all. I need them. Oh what does it mean to be warlike? Like a war? What does it mean to be Southern? Articulate? I lived on God’s little acre, in a time of God. The good people of God. God bless you and goodnight. My recovered memory pitches again toward the black-winged fairies like nesting dolls, tiny things flickering in the thickets of sexual trauma, neglect, burning, holy love. And do you believe in fairies? Clap your hands if you do. ...