Human Nature 9780814705490

Citation preview

H U M A N N A T U R

E

ELMER HOLME S BOBS T AWARD S FOR E M E R G I N G W R I T E R

S

Established i n 1983 , th e Elme r Holme s Bobs t Awards i n Art s an d Letter s ar e presente d eac h year t o individual s wh o hav e brough t tru e distinction t o th e America n literar y scene . Recipients o f th e Award s includ e writer s a s varied a s Toni Morrison , Joh n Updike , Russel l Baker, Eudor a Welty , Edwar d Albee , Arthu r Miller, Joyc e Caro l Oates , an d Jame s Merrill . The Award s were recently expande d t o includ e categories devoted to emerging writers of fiction and poetry , an d i n 199 4 th e juror s selecte d winners i n eac h category , Teres e Svobod a fo r her novel, Cannibal, an d Alic e Anderso n fo r her collection o f poems, Human Nature.

P O E M S

HUMAN

NATUR A L I C E

A N D E R S O

New York University Press • New York and London

N

N E W YOR K U N I V E R S I T Y P R E S S New York and Londo n Copyright © 199 4 by New York Universit y All rights reserved Library of Congress Cataloging-in-PubJication Data Anderson, Alice , 1966 Human natur e : poems / Alice Anderson. p. cm . ISBN 0-8147-0632-0 (cloth) . — ISB N 0-8147-0633-9 (pbk. ) I. Title . PS3551.N353H86 199 4 811'. 54—dc20 94-3430

3

CIP

New York University Pres s books are printed o n acid-free paper , and their binding material s are chosen fo r strength an d durability . Book design: Jennifer Dossi n Manufactured i n th e Unite d State s of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S Some of the poems in this book first appeared i n AGNJ, The New York Quarterly, The Plum Review, an d i n th e antholog y On the Verge; Emerging Poets and Artists (Faber & Faber, 1993) .

For Sharon Olds

C O N T E N T S

I. The Spli t 3 The Good Christia n 6 Licking Wounds 8 The Mar k I What the Night Is Like 1

I 5

II. Answers 2 The Suicid e Year 2 Girl Cadaver 2 The Test 2 Looking for Nicol e 3

1 4 6 8 0

in. Sibling Rivalry 3 Little Girl Cadaver 4 Playing Dead 4 Defense 4 Blue-Blackout 4

5 0 5 7 9

xi

IV. New Japan 5 Communion 5 Grief 5 To the Wolves 6 Escape 6

3 7 8 0 3

V. Ceremony o f Light 6 Conviction 7 The Figh t 7 Return 7 Human Natur e 8

xn

9 2

6 8 5

H U M A N N A T U R

E

Better this immersion than to live untouched. — LIND A HUL L

T H E S P L I

T

This is how it happens. Yo u are just out of the shower maybe in the afternoon whe n your lover comes up behind yo u and kisses you on the shoulder. Yo u turn, kis s back. An d you even remind yourself , during that first heavy breath o r fall to the bed—I a m no t going to close my eyes. But you cannot help yourself and you close your eyes, forgetting you r promise, an d you see him. A figure,.moving form, enormou s shadow appearing somewher e between you r eyelids and the air. Ther e he is above you and for a moment you are happy about it, amazed to feel again what it is to be that small. Ho w exquisite your tiny fingers, how fragile th e bones of your wrists. You see how easily your thigh fits in a hand, you r chin i n a mouth, you r buttocks in the crook of a hip—how eas y it is then t o be filled. This is real to you: this is what you turn se x into. You feel you r knees pushed ope n with thick warm thumbs and you can feel your knees are skinned and then yo u see them getting skinned, yo u see yourself somewhere beyond that shadow. You see your white skates on the drive, the slope of the tar,

3

and int o this vision you escape. Leave . Ceas e to exist. You are gone from th e place of the thin be d and the blue panties caught around a n ankle. Someon e else has taken your place. You then ar e on the driveway and your cat is in the flowerbed and your mother looks out the kitchen windo w at you i n your good dress which you are not supposed to wear with skates. You skate in circles and watch the sky, picking shapes out of clouds—turtle, clippe r ship, heart , hand . Your mother tells you Watch where you are going young lady. And even before yo u skin your knees you feel somethin g slowly rising in your throat, th e way the cream lift s ever y time from th e milk in the glass bottles that arrive on Sundays , no matter how many times your mother shakes it up for you. It rises in you like that—thick an d lukewarm a s your father's skin . The taste inches up but you keep skating, try to make the circles perfect an d small , tr y to smell the beefsteaks o n the barbequ e in the side yard where your father call s over the fenc e to the neighbor, sayin g This is the life. But when yo u hea r his voice it is enough t o send you down. Yo u fall . Your knees are skinned and full o f rocks but you're almost you again, pantie s wrapped aroun d a n ankle, undershir t pushed up . You hear your breathing and his breathing. You'r e hot.

4

Your eyes are open again, starin g at something they don't even see. And when finally it happens you realiz e that it isn't your father filling you this time, h e is only making you fall. I t hits you that you've done it again: this shrinking into someone, the n somewher e else. I t is always the same. Yo u cannot control it . Yo u never learned t o skate. You are there in your grown up bed with your lover and you have just made love and h e says Isn't sex amazing an d you say Yes.

5

T H E G O O

D

C H R I S T I A N You spent your days in church afraid . You sat in your little red Mary Janes, scowling, pinching your own thigh. Ther e was no place you could find, n o matter how long you looked in your father's blac k Bible, where it said you shouldn't fall i n love with the Virgin Mary , bu t you knew it couldn't be good. Yo u knew enough t o fear it. You knew you could neve r be innocent, i n the arms of a woman, on e who'd neve r done the things you'd done. Neve r closed her eyes, pretending to sleep, starting to sweat, touching , waiting . Never took off a pair of Cinderella underwear , stuffed the m i n a wet ball into her pillow case. You mad e it better by praying and pretendin g to be dead. Yo u knew your sins would be forgiven . You learned your lessons well. You liked the ma n making love to a dead still angel girl. You liked it most of all when you pretended h e was Mary. Then, yo u made love to her because you loved her . Her hair was soft an d long, he r breasts so full. She was with the child. Sh e kissed you and sh e

6

parted your perfectly whit e thighs. You dared no t breathe. Sh e prayed. Yo u cried. Sh e loved you, yo u believed a t least in that. Yo u listened to the prayer. Open your eyes, my angel, open them and look. This is the tie that binds our hearts in ]esusy love. Open your eyes, my babe, open them and see. And you would, yo u would open your eyes in sheer ecstasy, and see—th e hair y chest, no t Mary's but your father's fleshy breasts, his stomach roun d a s the moon . And so in church yo u were afraid. Yo u knew. That closing your eyes made no prayer come true. That all sins of all sinners were forgiven . You sat with your dark circled eyes and pain inside and you knew. There was only one fathe r in the house of your Lord, an d h e had chosen you .

7

L I C K I N G W O U N D

S

James wen t first becaus e Jame s alway s wen t first. Th e yea r I wa s six and h e eight , whe n w e invite d al l th e kid s o n th e block—Lind a and Lisa , little Amy, Jenn a an d Adi e and he r brother Ludi e the snak e boy — over to slid e o n ou r Slip-n-Slid e i n th e backyard . Jame s pulle d th e orange slip out o f the garag e i n a wrinkled hea p and brough t i t out back by the long, stil l fishpond. Th e pon d wher e I fe d m y favorit e fish to o muc h an d he drowned . Those wer e th e year s w e stil l ha d money , whe n Mo m stil l carve d my dresses out o f conspicuou s bolt s o f brushe d silk , linen , an d furry , beig e lambs-wool. James hel d on e end , an d Ludi e th e other , backin g away from eac h other, thei r long arm s outstretche d bu t ben t a t th e elbow s a s i f pullin g ho t cupcake pans from a n oven . The y laye d th e Slip-n-Slid e ou t acros s th e lawn , screwed i n the garde n hos e t o th e orang e plasti c nozzle , an d watche d a s th e chalky plastic

8

filled an d shon e wit h war m an d the n col d summe r hos e water . James wen t first becaus e h e alway s wen t first—not becaus e h e was the oldest or the talles t o r th e leas t smar t o f al l th e kids . H e wen t first becaus e he liked the protest , th e jerkin g one-foote d whine s o f girl s wit h smalle r faces, smalle r voices, an d smaller , white r thighs . I wa s obsesse d wit h germ s tha t year, wouldn't hav e eaten a t all i f I had know n tha t to make it , someone , somewhere had to take it into hands. Th e butcher, wit h slabs of meat and bone, wrapping it up in gleaming , invisibl e cellophane . Th e maid , washin g lettuce , tearing it to shreds before washin g it again an d placin g it in a heap in the crisper. Eve n my mother , washing the boneless pork under the faucet before dipping it into silt white flour, turning i t over , an d over , an d again , befor e layin g i t softl y i n th e sizzling copper pan. At dinner , whe n n o on e wa s watching—n o on e eve r did—Jame s would lean over and le t ou t hi s long , ho t tongue . He' d lic k hi s lips , m y meat , th e edge of my milk glass, o r th e tight , col d corne r o f m y mouth . S o he sli d first down the Slip-n-Slide .

9

He backe d u p t o th e fenc e an d too k of f ful l speed , tight-fiste d an d leaning into the leap, belly-down, slidin g i n a jagged , wil d line . An d hi s sudde n wailin g scream seeme d to com e fro m somewher e i n hi s shining , glass y eyes . I t took hour s for the doctors to extract the shards of glass from hi s chest and stomach , hi s skinny thighs. A broke n jar ? Campin g lamp ? N o on e knew . Bu t whe n I went , finally, to that tall whit e be d wher e h e la y fo r on e lon g afternoon , I le t ou t m y small, coo l tongue and ra n i t up his peach-fuzzed ar m fro m wris t to elbow to shoulder bone and for jus t one day, I was first, and n o one was looking.

10

T H E M A R

K

I loved you, Christine , an d I' m ashame d t o tell you why. It' s been years since the third grade, and IVe hitched a ride with a wild cat breeder who tells me of his favorite tiger , an d ho w it bit off his girlfriend' s fingers. The girl reached out , mesmerize d i t seems, by the marble eyes and stripes , to touch th e white bit of head, an d the cat looked at her hand, an d leane d int o her, an d snapped of f two fingers (first and middle , righ t hand). The y couldn' t get the fingers from her , sh e was happy with them, happ y eating them. H e said that's how trusting she is, and kind, t o reach her hand ou t to a full grow n tiger. And all I said was Wow, starin g at the trees passing, dreaming how wonderful I' d be without fingertips, how right, ho w my face would be set—determined—while I tried to write, ho w people would loo k at me, m y hands, an d say Oh. And that's when I thought of you, Christine . You , th e only one I noticed that first day in my new school. I t wasn't your thick red-brown hai r or your crisp cream dress. I t was that the top two knuckles of your two middle fingers were gone, empt y spaces in your hands. Yo u sat hunchbacked over that grey wide-ruled paper , scrawlin g out spelling words,

11

fabrication generation hesitation identification justification You pressed so hard you tore through th e page, mad e marking s on the painted whit e desk. An d I wanted your fingers to be mine. I loved their pale-boned ends . I loved how you bent them int o your palms, pressing down the ends with your thumbs. Ho w you ran them u p and down your thighs, the long fingers trailing the sides of your downy brown legs. I memorized th e way they stuck out when w e swung on the swings. I envied what they called you: the girl without the fingers. You became my best friend. An d I was proud. Your mother was school librarian an d we didn't talk to her at school, avoidin g her waves, hiding at lunch. Bu t we stayed after mos t days in the back reading room, awe d at sex ed. book s and National Geographic —those women with their ears or their nipples pulled long , their necks stretched hig h and s o thin. W e didn't know if those women were real. We didn't know what they'd endured . Ther e were days we'd talk for hours about the girls in the magazines we stole from m y father's closet , wonderin g if the girls were sad, i f they had parents, i f they had pets. We though t they were doomed t o Playboy by their disfigurement—the crack s in their asses just slight little dents. There wasn't any opening. W e wondered i f they were fed by tubes. We cam e to dislike those girls. But the women i n National Geographic, we loved them. W e wanted to be them, t o dot ourselves with

12

rows of tattoos, t o wear rings through ou r lips and nose . W e wanted to know what they'd endure d t o become so beautiful. W e wanted to endure it . I didn't know if what you'd endured wa s real, was what the other kids said. I liked to think it wasn't. Story was you said fuck, slicing carrots. Yo u said it when you' d nicke d your finger and i t was pretty bad but your father turne d anywa y and took the knife, hel d your hands one at a time down on the dark and light striped wood board an d cut off your middle fingers and threw them in the trash compactor. I didn't know if the story was true— I knew your father wa s never around, no t mentioned. I liked to think he was dead. I liked to think you were lucky that way, at night. I knew you didn't have a trash compactor . I knew you didn't like boys, didn't have crushes on anyon e but me. We' d si t for hours it seemed i n the closet with key chains clamped t o our noses, daring each othe r to kiss. We kissed our eight year old kisses and we both pretended w e didn't know how. W e poked ourselves with straight pins, rubbe d eac h othe r under the dress with wet wash cloths. I started to believe the story. I started to hate you for it. I hated you r fingers, their truth, an d your brave father—how h e was willing to leave that proof. I loved your father fo r that, an d thought of him then , no t you, a t night. I hated that your fingers had heale d

13

into such smooth white skin and bone, an d that you'd learned t o use them, t o get by the best with them. An d I hated mos t of all (it's why I loved you too) that you would always have that plain distinction, an d that I never would. Wha t ever I could do to myself would never be so beautiful . What F d endured woul d neve r shine like that.

14

W H A T T H

E N I G H

I S L I K

T

E

What Waiting Sounds Like You li e in bed and liste n to the neighbor lad y do her dishes. He r oldest, whos e voic e i s hig h an d thin , sit s a t th e tabl e an d talk s whil e her mothe r doe s the batch a s always, plate s and bowl s first, then pans , then pots . Sh e run s throug h th e event s o f th e da y lik e a liturgy , on e regret a t a time . Yo u hea r th e woode n chai r screech , the n th e rust y faucet turn , the n nothing . Yo u wait . You r mothe r come s to tuck you in. Sh e come s an d sit s o n th e sid e o f you r be d i n he r silen t cotto n nightgown, turn s o n you r radio . Sh e turn s o n th e classica l station , turning i t up some t o turn i t down again—ver y slowl y unti l it' s lik e a tiny ech o o f a balle t turnin g i n you r hea d lon g afte r rehearsa l ha s ended. Sh e ask s i f you'r e worrie d abou t anything—you r leg s scisso r between th e sheets, whispering . Yo u say , I dorit know. Sh e sighs, an d rises from th e bed . Th e radi o play s on, yo u think , an d he r fee t stic k a bit t o th e parque t floor. Yo u hea r hi s fat fee t o n tha t floor, wha t the y will sound like , later. Sh e turns and says , The man on the moon looked down from the sky, looked down from the sky and said, it's now eight o'clock and time for all good girls to be fast asleep in bed.

What It Tastes Like Like bourbon an d aftershave, perfum e o n your tongue. Cigarett e hair. Erase r heads, ol d paper clips, dry milk licked from th e ri m of the carton, sour . Lik e the smell of his skin.

15

When It Happens It's lik e th e momen t yo u rais e you r arm s an d tak e off , flying, when yo u sa y t o yourself , Ym dreaming. Lik e flying ove r you r ol d neighborhood, seein g you r ol d bes t frien d i n he r Communio n dres s standing barefoo t o n th e asphalt , a piec e o f gree n chal k i n he r hand . She ha s drawn a stem dow n th e middl e o f the road . Yo u fly back an d forth an d i t i s quiet, lik e peace . An d light , lik e assurance . An d whe n something begin s t o fly right abov e you , somethin g whit e lik e a bir d but frantic , no t a bird , it' s lik e ligh t itsel f ha s com e dow n upo n you . You tr y t o kee p flying but yo u g o down , finding yoursel f attache d t o the dar k earth , you r hai r takin g root , goin g deep . Lik e a pur e whit e lily. It' s like a moth ha s landed o n you, th e sun filtering through wing s of skin . An d th e mot h i s lik e a dream , leavin g it s sil t behind . Lik e when yo u wake up in the morning, stil l believing you can fly.

What It Sounds Like Like a saw, sawin g through a hard whit e board . Lik e shar p stee l teeth, pullin g bac k an d forth . Lik e a sa w breathin g i n an d breathin g out until the fine wood snaps. What It Feels Like Secret. Good . What It's Like It's like silence. Lik e diving int o a clear pool o f water and seein g the botto m comin g fast , righ t befor e yo u scrap e you r chin . It' s lik e

16

lighting a cigarett e a t a n intersectio n knowin g you'l l pres s i t int o you r skin the minute the light turns green, when you see the other light turn yellow. It' s like rattin g your hai r whe n yo u hea r you r mothe r paddin g down th e hall to ask why you're crying, righ t before sh e opens up your door. Lik e wrappin g a rubbe r ban d aroun d you r rin g finger an d watching th e finger tur n pin k an d the n blue , righ t befor e yo u bit e through th e band. Lik e the moon , th e nigh t befor e it' s full. Lik e light cracking throug h you r door , a bel t whackin g throug h it s loops , righ t before yo u take down your pants and turn over . It' s like standing naked before you r fathe r whe n you'r e five, tha t momen t yo u star t t o sprea d your legs and smile. It' s knowing you're going to bleed the night befor e you begin to bleed. It' s like that, almost .

17

A N S W E R S I was never very popular after th e Jason incident . It was the sixth grade, that year everyone competes for the longest french kiss , or the deepest, o r the silent grab of a flat breast out behind th e oaks at recess. Jason was my boyfriend fo r jus t one week. Blond , wit h eyes so light grey they almost looked all white. All that week, I refused. T o kiss. To french kiss . To kiss at all. I wanted to wait, t o make the time before w e kissed last. I wanted to be able to pretend t o wonder. But he held m e up against the back-stop and did it. It's strange for a sixth grader to feel rape d by a kiss. After, h e dumped me , tellin g everyone I was frigid. That, th e same day as Suzy Vellanowith's slumber party. Nine girls got invitations, but she wouldVe liked to take mine back. He r mother was my mother's best friend . So after th e hot dogs and punch, th e presents and cake and Dixi e cups of nuts, after playin g a memory game in which we'd look into a bucket of junk for ten seconds, the other girls chanting One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four . . and at ten you'd yell out everything you could remember ,

21

(I won, a peppermint Lip-Smacker) , w e all changed . Standing i n the living room, pullin g nighties out of pillowcases, we'd peel off our jean s and tube tops, yanking the slips of satin over our bony young spines, crouchin g towards the couch o r the chair, th e tables, walls. Their teddie s were mostly pink or yellow, sk y blue, but not mine. No, min e was red, rea l silk, the kind that fastene d in between you r thighs, edge d in black lace, rigi d with piping to emphasize a waist I didn't have. We spread our sleeping bags out across the room , best friend b y best friend, m e at the end by the fron t door. Suzy' s mother finally went to bed and the n the real games began. Spin the Bottle—girls kissing girls, softly. An d Truth or Dare—everyone taking the dare, eatin g cat food o r making out with themselve s in the gold hallway mirror. An d when w e were warmed u p and full o f romance, ou r past-midnight game began. Questions. I t was simple. Yo u sat in a circle and asked , pointing at the girl you wanted to answer. Bu t the game was Questions, no t Answers, and any sort of answer put you ou t of the circle. Eac h time someone was out, the circle closed in . An d I hated it .

22

What boy in class do you most want to kiss? What teacher do you think is sexiest? Do you like girls better than boys? Kari Bunch wa s out first. She always laughed, coul d neve r ask the right kind of question, th e kind to make you flinch. When was the first time you kissed a boy? When was the first time you bench kissed a boy? What base have you gone to? First? Third? Theresa Baile y was out next. Th e circl e closed in . Th e roo m was warm, m y lips were hot. I swallowed an d began . What do you think it is like? Would you ever put a penis in your mouth? Who do you think is on top, your mom or dad? I am usually on top and h e pulls me does he? back and fort h across him lik e a washboard, bruisin g me so bad it hurts to play tetherball th e next day. Sometime s he does do you? put it in my mouth, s o deep I can barely talk and then m y dumb mothe r is she so? takes me to the doctor and I have to stay home then , with steam filling up my lungs. Sometime s he just kisses me, french . Who do you want to marry? Are you going to do it before your wedding night? And if you do, will you still wear white?

23

T H E S U I C I D

E Y E A

That fateful yea r I wished for you, flushed the tiny orange pills away, listenin g to the rushin g whirl a s I fixed my lipstick before comin g to bed. I wanted t o give in, finally, and be the woman I thought I should be. I kept you secret, hel d you in for weeks, m y angel, savior , twin . Finally , I had a silent friend. A s I broke the blade fro m the plastic pink razor, I thought only of my teen-age years, ho w I stayed home weeks at a time, fake-sick an d i n love with my mother. We' d go on lon g car rides and she' d talk, turnin g the radio lower and lower, slowly , unti l i t was off . We're leaving him soon. I'll sleep with you until then so he won't. I don't blame you anymore, I don't. She spoke so quietly. No t crying. Jus t talk and pauses. I wasn't to agree or not agree. Sh e ached at imperfection , but disappointment brok e her. I t was late and i n the bathroom when , si x years after sh e did, I balanced

24

R

my white wrists atop my spare knees and began . She never left him . Sh e said he had a good heart, thoug h h e drank himself into silence after five. As least, sh e said, silenc e was safe. A t least she would always have me and that, sh e said, shoul d be enough. He r eloquent handwriting slid perfectly acros s the notes she sent me back to school with. Th e note s without her real voice, echoing, Fathers just love their daughters in a special kind of way. Ym not jealous. And it wasn't that I wanted t o die. I wanted t o wear heels with a pencil skirt. I wanted to cook perfect casserole s and be alright if friends droppe d by. I wanted to be her, not write these poems of death and erotic families . But my cuts were so shallow I hid them i n shame and never even cried unti l several days later, whe n yo u slid out of me and int o water which I set swirling red, m y little twin. When I watched you wash away I thought I heard a voice cry, Better to die than to be loved.

25

G I R L C A D A V E

R

Sitting on the carpet of your L.A. room , crying , yo u tell m e of the girl whom yo u don't love whom yo u slept with because you do love me and yo u were so lonely. Ne w York, you say, i s very far away. Your room i s filled with all the parts of your new life, pile s of notes and stacks of anatomy books with photos of the dead, skinne d or sliced open, th e bodies split up the middle, a few stray pubic hairs still attached a t the thigh. I can onl y flip through th e glossy pages a few minutes, skippin g the section o n reproduction, befor e feelin g ful l inside . I haven't seen you i n almost a year, a year since the nigh t you drove off like a flame in your blue truck, screamin g You re nothing to me, just another girl, just another fuck. At night, wit h you, i n bed again, I pull the pillows over my head, clingin g to the edge, falling int o dreams of my body, cu t up and bloody , hangin g from rope s in trees above the front yard s of all my ex-boyfriends . Today you tell m e about Gross Anatomy, abou t

26

accidentally severe d breasts, and your girl cadaver, the one you were so lucky and happ y to get before yo u foun d her brain s o soft and rotte d i t slipped between you r fingers. Shit, yo u said then, abou t her. Yo u jok e that if I were to leave my body to science some med students, afte r the initial jo y at a cadaver so young and thin an d (why did you assume it would be young?) with jus t a few nicely healed scars , would open m e up, find things missing, the liver destroyed, tha t thick womb, an d say, Shit . We listen to Patsy Cline and you say I like women's voices. And so when agai n I tell you I love you I think of my brain, imagine it soft a s rotted peaches, the color of my perfume . We make love again an d behind m y closed eyes I picture you slicing me open, quie t and swift , expectin g to see just organs, just tissue, jus t blood. An d I see your face, dar k and still and damp, gro w panicked an d wild as all of your children slip out of me, scurryin g between the pages of your books.

27

T H E T E S

T

Standing next to the stainless steel sink, wonderin g if perhaps the man nex t door is watching me—at two in the afternoon, hai r a toppled mess , topless in my underwear—with th e lid full o f urine and the five tiny vials to fill and mi x and shak e and read . The cerea l I've poured i s turning grey. No t exactly nervous, I' m mor e sick at the thought of a pink dot, th e result of a white. And you've gone now, slammin g down the stairs with your helmet i n hand, afte r yellin g you didn't really mean I couldn't hav e children, jus t that you thought I might not. Yo u said it was a feeling you had, a fear there must be something that would keep me from it , probabl y paranoia gained i n med school , where all the boys run hom e that third month sur e they understan d their mothers' and sisters' and wives' and girlfriends' bodie s better than they ever did, a t least. Most women are completely unaware of their own makings. You liked to think you knew my body. Yo u liked to think your thoughts were truth. I let the vials stand longer than th e thirty seconds at each prescribed step , hoping to steep a daughter, hopin g the doctors were wrong. I was eight I think when

28

they said, She wont be able to have children, but a healthy sex life should be no problem, with a laugh and pat on the back. Mayb e I was seven. Maybe my sex life was already anything but healthy . I want all girls, you said when yo u left. Girl s who look like me. Yo u want them smart . Yo u want them pretty . And I wonder if what you really want is a new version of the old me, th e one who'd forgiv e anything : stomach punch, drunke n slur , just-se x with someone else. I drop the now clear potion int o the test well one slow drop at a time and watch for the white dot to turn pink . Crouchin g counter level, I hide from her—tha t dot—you r daughter , mine , th e one that asks that I forgive you, prov e you, m y past, wrong . I drip the last droplet into the well, stand up , pee r in, compare the color of the dot to the palest pink line on the instruction sheet . I look a long time. Bu t the dot remains so white.

29

L O O K I N G F O N I C O L E My friends worr y I'll tak e one. They nudg e me, hard , whe n they notice I' m eyeing one—sizing u p its likenesses to me. Sometime s I might say, I could pic k her up and star t walking and everyon e would assum e she was mine. Cant you see her light hair? Cant you see those blue-green eyes? I don't say I see myself driving straight across state after stat e with her. I don't describe the white house in the small town outside the big city where we'll mee t the town carpenter an d marr y him. I'v e never said out loud I know exactly how to change my name and how much i t costs. But they're still worried, m y friends . They think one day I'll do it. I wonder how it doesn't cross their mind s what I told them abou t my own girl—ho w four day s after sh e slid out of me, a still slip of skin and blood, whe n I checked mysel f

30

R

out of the hospital, alon e then, no t even knowin g what they did with her, ho w I drove all night on the interstate still fogged wit h morphine , stil l sore, then slep t through tw o entire days in a Salt Lake City Holiday In n singl e super budget. Befor e I left I went to the Meaning of Life Theatr e at the Latter Day Saint s Founding Ground s and watched th e Meaning of Life movie, o r rather, sat through it , watchin g instea d th e blond head s of baby girls in the laps of plump mother s from Pittsburgh , Lodi , an d Fargo . Forgive Cruelty. Practice Loyalty. I could hav e gotten on e there, a perfec t little one. I could take a baby—I coul d reach over , pic k one up, an d hol d he r tight to me and walk very slowly away. Bu t even i n the car I'd know: something would be not quite right about her—her eye s too blue or small, he r toes a bit too long. I might love her, bu t I'd stil l look.

3*

S I B L I N G R I V A L R

Y

All I know is this: that every day, when I was still too young for school, I hung on to hi s le g like a stuffed bear , velcroe d t o it s lover. H e seeme d s o large looking down at me , m y arm s clenche d har d enoug h t o hurt . He' d dra g m e a fe w feet down the driveway , pleading . He' d tel l m e agai n whe n he' d b e home , wha t kind of project I could spen d th e day making for him , wha t he'd brin g me—a roc k or a leaf. I remember his green eye s matched hi s green jacke t and tha t h e looke d a s tall an d as adult as the sky. He woul d alway s take m y beatings. Whe n I broke th e specia l cerami c Japanese man , he said he did it , an d I hid o n m y bed, m y face i n the pillow, listenin g to the swift whack 7 whackf whack of the bel t o n hi s skin, t o the we t breaths an d grunt s of my father, t o the re d bloo d pumpin g t o hi s head , filling u p hi s face . Th e whol e house seemed t o beat, the do g woul d star t barkin g i n th e yard . An d m y fathe r woul d com e into my room after , see me there unde r th e eyelet canopy and he' d thin k I was the sweetest thing, cryin g

35

that way, feeling that way for my brother, he'd tell me that he had to do it that he didn't like i t but tha t i t had t o be done. Kid s have go t to learn. He' d tel l m e he liked m e the best , I wa s easy . I' d forgiv e hi m the n fo r th e belt , an d wra p m y arms around his roun d middle , bur y m y hea d i n hi s neck . He' d ru b th e squar e o f whiskers he lef t unshaved jus t for m e agains t th e sof t ski n o f my chee k an d I' d b e sur e I was the goo d child , tha t I deserve d t o b e hi s girl , hi s favorite . He' d say , Baby, Sweet Girl and that's what I' d become . M y brother would sta y in hi s room al l day and cal l in a radi o station , winnin g records . Th e guy s o n ai r woul d ge t mad , giving the same record over an d ove r t o th e sam e boy , o r pair s o f passe s t o concert s h e wa s sure to never go. The statio n manage r eve n calle d ou r hous e an d talke d t o m y father , who laughed, You give the boy what he won now, didn't he get it fair and square? He gave some of th e record s t o me . Nex t t o ou r matchin g stereo s i n hi s blu e roo m and m y pink

36

we had matchin g stack s of Alice Cooper , Thre e Do g Night, an d Kiss . In the hours afte r school we'd yel l Cher! or Foghatl and the n rac e to put the same record on our players, racing t o se e who' d hav e t o b e th e echo . An d the n on e yea r h e simply stopped . When I yelled ou t Queen! there was no sound fro m hi s room. I didn't care muc h at first. I went about my days in m y room as always. I drew pictures of hearts with his nam e an d min e inside , slidin g the m unde r hi s door . H e neve r came to my door. Sometimes I' d li e on m y bed, listenin g to him li e on his bed, listenin g to his breath go in and out , th e bloo d t o hi s hear t pumpin g har d enoug h t o hurt . An d I could hea r hi m in hi s blu e roo m pushin g th e digit s o f th e phon e faste r an d faster , trying for the records, trying fo r th e winnin g call . I coul d hea r hi m tryin g no t t o hea r m y father gruntin g and wheezin g i n m y room . H e didn' t liste n t o th e scrape s o f m y bed springs singing, didn' t hea r our house fill up with blood. An d I would hea r his little voice

37

on th e radi o again sa y I am just an eight year old boy. I am only eight years old. He sai d i t jus t lik e that . I a m sur e that' s wha t h e said . That' s wha t I heard hi m say. I woul d li e ther e i n th e afternoo n wit h m y father' s sper m crawlin g quietly u p my belly and my own blood sneaking down my leg and out the door and I would let out a silent stream o f pee ont o th e sheets . I would hea r m y father i n m y brother' s room. I would hea r him sa y she ha s t o lear n h e didn' t wan t t o i t hur t hi m more . An d I' d get up, follo w th e path of bloo d tha t surel y m y fathe r lef t stainin g th e sof t beig e carpet . M y brother didn't look at me an d I didn't loo k at him . I just stood ther e a t the door . An d ther e was something in m y throa t tha t move d an d caught . I n m y hea d I thought, Ym just a girl who's only six years old. An d afte r tha t w e didn' t hea r eac h other' s tin y hearts beating through th e walls . An d neithe r o f u s noticed , sittin g quietl y o n ou r twin beds, when the bloo d seepe d ou t o f u s an d slowe d an d stoo d still , poolin g int o corners, sinkin g

38

into th e floor. W e didn' t hea r th e shif t o f ou r smal l heart s filling u p with sand. Th e dog barked. W e hardl y moved . I neve r touche d a thin g tha t I migh t break.

39

L I T T L E G I R

L

C A D A V E R

I se e i n you r face , whe n yo u wal k u p t o m e anothe r yea r later , i n a cafe, th e same drunk re d glo w I sa w o n th e face s o f th e me n sittin g on e b y on e i n that theatre. A Saturday afternoon matinee . I have gone to see The Cement Garden, a story about incest , a story about lif e an d th e sic k turns, I think, tha t passio n sometimes takes. And s o I go, I pay m y three dollar s an d seventy-fiv e cents. I go to th e bathroom an d brush m y hai r becaus e althoug h th e da y i s sunny, there' s stil l a bit of winter in the wind. I check m y lipstick, pu t on more . I go in. Th e theatre is dark yet blue, lit with neo n strikes of light that fall dow n folds of black velvet curtains on the walls. I sit down and still the slantin g squar e spac e i s dark bu t no t exactl y dark , ther e ar e littl e spotlights that shine on ever y few row s and eac h ra y of white hit s the crow n o f skin upo n a head. I look at th e heads . A t th e ski n o n th e heads . I notic e th e differen t pattern s balding takes,

40

the wa y on e ha s a sof t bare crown , th e nex t jus t to o muc h forehead . None of them seems t o hav e los t i t all—the y hav e kep t a t leas t covere d th e tende r skin and tendon s that ru n fro m hea d t o neck . An d I si t an d loo k a t th e me n an d thei r shining crowns in their pink and pale blue Members Only jacket s and something slowly starts to beat inside me . I t feels jus t like my heart but i t beats from somewher e else , distant, th e way your hear t slow s dow n t o norma l onl y afte r you'v e leane d t o pic k u p the half-devoure d bird on your doorstep and youVe put it into the plastic Lucky's bag and it seems then not sa d o r grotesque , bu t simply , garbage . I notic e you , whe n yo u si t down, hav e cut you r lon g hai r shorte r bu t hav e le t th e bang s gro w long . I t i s th e same cut my brother's daughter has . Yo u tel l m e you'v e starte d drinkin g again , an d tha t you plan to di e young . Yo u sa y people jus t ar e th e wa y they're alway s going t o be. It's like all those people I tattooed with flying fucking dragons when I was twelve, working with my fucking dad out of the old yellow and black photomat, will always be

41

white trash. Yo u didn' t reac h tw o year s o f sober— even fucking keel you call it—s o boring an d withou t passio n i t didn' t fee l lik e lif e a t all . It was a slow and daily suicide, fucking torture. I si t an d liste n t o ho w nic e lif e i s no w tha t you know you're almos t finished wit h it , ho w yo u se e suc h trut h i n th e face s o f the people on th e table s i n th e hospita l wher e yo u ar e doin g a rotatio n i n forensics. Rows and fucking rows of them. Lik e the men, i n the theatre, non e sitting in a row where an y othe r sat , sprea d ou t a t interval s tha t migh t hav e seeme d a t first t o me polite. I chose m y ow n ro w too. I came t o se e the stor y abou t incest . I am excite d to se e th e story . I did not , however , brin g alon g a mornin g pape r fo r my lap. And so I si t i n th e theatr e wher e th e blue-tinge d blac k curtain s flutter i n th e wind of pumped-in air , and realiz e I am th e onl y woma n there . I do no t wan t t o be sittin g i n the middle of that room, middl e row , middl e seat . I want t o si t wher e I have neve r sat , towards the back, nearest t o th e curtain s tha t han g dar k blu e lik e fire along th e walls . I get up and move. I am awar e that I' m afraid . I know that i t is strange there but I cannot say how

42

strange. I sit and I stop breathing. An d when m y heart starts racing it is shame I feel to be sittin g b y that wall . I get u p an d I leave. Lyin g to the gir l a t th e box office, sayin g IVe been beepe d t o go to the hospital, I get my money back. I put it in my pocket. I wal k calml y out , the n run . An d it' s the n I finally cry , th e awfu l screeching wails of a youn g girl—hal f sorrow , hal f outrage . Th e wa y a chil d laugh s along when othe r kids mak e fun , unti l sh e get s th e jok e then , agains t her , an d th e laughing turns to tears. And s o it is when I go to the caf e t o drink som e tea an d ge t over all of this, I am no t at al l surprise d t o se e yo u standin g ther e i n fron t o f me , wit h you r beeper attache d to your belt . Yo u wor k at what I think o f as my hospital, th e on e tha t brought me back to life so many times—accidents, broke n wrist , slashe d arms . And you tell me about a little girl, todays autopsy, yo u call her , she was seven, she was on the slab with he r earring s i n he r ear s whic h wer e butterflie s yo u sai d an d I thought you mean t her ears . Yo u sa y pink nail polish. You sa y pageboy, blond. J.V . still in her arm. And he r toes tagged. Marked, cancer. You tel l m e ho w yo u cu t he r open, remove d

43

her heart , an d hose d he r down , ho w i t was a garden hose , blu e with a stripe of black. The drai n wa s silver i n the floor. The usual. I tell you this is inhuma n behavior, t o open the chest of a little girl with earrings still on and polished nails, to spray her off and let the water run away. I know, yo u say, It's like Ym no different from some killer, I just didnt eat the girl. And suddenl y I see her, an d hea r her heart tha t feels so small an d beat s s o fa r away , th e wa y i t beat s whe n dadd y prie s he r open, an d she doesn't be g o r fight or pe e o r eve n cry . I leave th e cafe , running , jus t the way I ran with m y hand s dee p i n m y pocket s fro m th e theatr e int o th e shoc k of pale blue day, an d m y hear t beat s har d bu t it' s no t a s strong a s that girl' s heart , and als o not as brave. I see her hear t beat unde r he r pur e white skin and se e her lyin g on a pure white sheet . I se e th e ligh t abov e he r head . I se e he r clos e he r eye s and try, whispering int o th e dark , go . . . go . . . go. . . . An d it' s the n I see the cancer burst fro m tha t pleadin g plac e withi n he r heart , runnin g throug h he r veins like a thousan d tin y butterflie s flying throug h he r blood . I se e i t se t her free .

44

P L A Y I N G

D E A

D

This is what I can piece together. Tha t it was the third grade, the year we lived in Mississippi , tha t year I won BEST LIKED at the all-school beauty pageant. Lili-Ann e Nealy won MOST BEAUTIFUL . That we couldn't afford ne w dresses, so mine were short. Tha t our house was filled with cockroache s no matter how many times the bug man cam e out. The y were black or red, ra n up your arm sometimes when yo u reache d fo r the door. Tha t one day my mother ran u p and dow n the hallway in her white T-shirt, braless , an d that we laughed a t how her breasts shook. The n I ran, an d we laughed just as hard. Tha t I was vice-president of my father's golf cart company. I had my own card, whic h sai d my name, then , Vice-President. That there was a boy who was two years older than m e and he liked me and asked me to french, durin g a basketball game. Ou r parents were in the gym, watching the game go back and forth, an d we were out in the dark with the other kids on the merry-go-round an d I was singing Your momma dont dance and your daddy dont rock and roll. . . . I remember that he said I was sexy and would I kiss him lik e his momma di d and I ran like hell and hid i n our family wagon . That there was one dead roac h unde r m y doll crib, that it was there for weeks and weeks and I watched i t when I lay in bed each night . I wouldn't pick it up. And I do remember that , t o play dead, I positioned m y thin body half on the bed, hal f off, m y legs stuck down between th e bed and the wall. That the wall seemed damp . Tha t I stayed there for a very long time, onl y openin g my eyes to see if my stomach move d whe n I breathed. Tha t m y door was closed. Tha t m y drapes were open. Tha t I didn't have on any underwear but I had o n a nightgown. I heard the door creak open,

45

and sa w a bit of brightness through m y closed eyes, I lay still, as if dead, an d thought, Ym dead Ym dead Ym dead Ym dead. . . . And i t was my mother, an d sh e sang, Bay-bee . . . Ba-by Doll. Baby? Doll? Baby! that many times before I decided to pretend to wake up, that she was safe, i n her long white gown with the dark brown patch shining through.

46

D E F E N S E I mixed i t all up in a pot I kept under m y bed. The toothpaste and shampoo , th e sunflower seeds , jam . Windex, detergent , Turtl e Wax, bleach . Th e cold cream, an d lip gloss broken from it s slender bottle, Shalimar , Vaseline . I had to add one ingredient each day, t o keep up with my plan. For weeks I kept it there beneath th e lavender sham of my white canopy bed, fermenting , beginnin g to stink. I stirred with m y father's goo d rule r that I stole off his desk. Fourth grad e was the year I made a sign for my door, pin k and white daisies surrounding N O ENTRY , allowin g no one in . Not my mother, no t my two friends fro m school . No t even my father, s o tired and lonely from lon g business trips. I was careful comin g in myself, shuttin g the door behind me , crouching across the carpet, carefu l no t to catch m y own reflection i n the long dresser mirror, carefu l no t to let my plan b e seen by the man o n the other side of that glass. After a few weeks, I might add a few leaves or the dirt fro m under m y fingernails, warm water held thre e blocks fro m

47

the park fountain hom e i n my mouth. Eve n a few dried worms from th e side walkway by the garage, stirre d carefully in . On th e very last day, th e day I knew the man wa s coming through th e long silver mirror to get me, I set the pot on the chair by the window, th e purple velvet black in the moonligh t against the dress and lac e tights and shiny shoes I'd set out for the next day of school. I looked righ t at myself, int o my own eyes shining i n the windowpane's reflection—ther e wer e pines in my eyes. And then I slathered tha t sludge over my small white body, betwee n my toes and thighs, across my tight chest, o n lips, hot cheeks and brow, and crawled between the sheets, burning, cracking , waitin g to be taken, thinkin g this concoction woul d keep me safe, an d the same. I didn't tell anyone, I said, a s the man fro m th e mirror came to me in the darkness. I kept my eyes open. I didnt tell anyone, bu t this time I'm safe . I have mother's perfume, par k water, pin e needles, detergent, shampoo . Clea n stuff . M y stuff. I even peed i n it . Try to take me now. I don't have to tell anyone what I can keep you from taking . An d then, th e mirror went black.

48

B L U E - B L A C K O U T When i t hits me that I might've had sex before I remember havin g sex—I remembe r waking up in this bed, lookin g over that shoulder, holdin g a pair of blue boxers—I star t to speculate: who. And , how? The star architect? The on e whose parents let him ski p seventh and eight h while mine kept me in my place—thi n legs, long nose, curl y dark blond hair ? John Wasserman. There' s something abou t standing at my front door , I' m insid e on the Spanish tile, he's outside on the brick and hi s hand, a very large cool hand, i s in my pants. Or maybe that soccer player—he must'v e been near thirty and I was fifteen. Americo. He was Portuguese and spoke it to his brothers when I was there. H e had long brown hair—I se e it in between m y legs on a light blue sheet. I see it that way. And Mark Still , olde r again (I avoided boys at school), a UPS man, wit h black eyebrows, blue-gree n eyes. I remember voices in another room , a chair

49

under a doorknob. I remember freckle s on his shoulder, tha t his stomach seeme d big. And I remember onc e seeing a man lookin g in a window, an d the room was lit with the light of a black and white TV, an d he was watching me and I was naked an d not alone. I can see his face there, li t up, the n dark , the n li t again. I didn't sto p him, didn' t snap shut the blinds because what was happening, wasn't . When i t was over, non e of it would hav e happened: the quick sex, the slick bodies, m y father' s sweaty reflection smirkin g in the nailed-o n dresser mirror. Hi s quick shower. M y bruises. Even th e face i n the window—gone. I' m sur e I first made love at eighteen o n my parents' bed with Adam Sands . We went out a year first. He was patient with me , wen t with me to get the pill. H e said I wasn't the way everyone said I was. I feared he' d as k my father's permission . He was careful whe n i t happened an d h e knew he was my first. We both knew it. We believed it . M y whole lif e depended o n it .

50

N E W

J A P A

N

There i s a n elementar y schoo l acros s th e stree t fro m m y apartmen t here, i n Daikokoch o Prefecture . Eac h mornin g I rid e m y viole t bik e past th e concret e pla y yar d an d th e childre n lin e u p alon g th e high , chain-link fence , smilin g a t m e wit h crooked , baby-toothe d grins . Their sprin g uniform s hav e shor t nav y shorts , whit e shirts , pin k suspenders an d cotto n cap s fo r girl s an d boy s alike . On e rough-and tumble kin d o f kid never fails to yell out the first English sentenc e they learn i n pre-kindergarten . Dis is a peril an d I cal l bac k ove r m y shoulder, Kore was penu desul to great gales of giggling, pin k waves of bowing head s an d smile s conceale d behin d fat , polit e hands . Ever y day.

The girl is unusually tall , exquisite . A flash of her, flash of white as I whiz through th e intersection . Hair sheare d short , blue-blac k agains t whit e neck , translucen t i n thi s morning sun . City noises : honking, yelling , traffic , bicycl e bells , kot o musi c waftin g out of roadside tents. Monks i n orang e robe s sel l boile d yam s an d don' t speak . The y d o laugh. The sound o f her: two brisk claps, silenc e of bow, clapping again.

53

Her hands held palm t o palm mus t smell like lily of the valley. I pedal on, int o the business district.

At th e IB M school , th e classroo m i s mor e o f a boardroom , wher e children o f executive s lear n i n English , gearin g u p t o someda y an d with grea t delicac y tak e ove r America . Al l age s o f kid s shar e on e classroom, lik e the one-roo m schoolhous e i n Nort h Dakot a wher e m y mother taught , wher e sh e onc e too k me . W e foun d a pictur e sh e painted stil l hangin g abov e the pot-bellie d stove , an d fo r som e reason , that made us cry.

After wor k I go to the bath house , payin g with illegal tips given to me by Morimoto-san o r Yamaguchi-san o r some other executive father. I t is called Ne w Japan an d i s nothing like the baths in Daikokocho , wher e I went only once and watche d the woman sittin g beside me in the mineral poo l (a tiny, weathere d grandmother, th e type who argues the yam monk s on price) let out a thick, poppy-colore d strea m o f urine int o the clear hot water. New Japan i s all mauve, blac k marble, an d sadly Western, I'll admit . Bu t they know me here. I' m popula r with the girls who stop in after lesson s (ballet, te a ceremony, judo , French) . A pretty girl whom I like and se e often sit s next to me in the steam room. He r name i s Keiko. Jutting her alabaster-skinned youn g face

54

towards the dewy pile of grey and white dripping hot rocks, she wraps her arms around herself , an d asks me, What is it that you to do? And I tell her of the kids who speak more American slan g than I do and fathers wh o offer t o take me to real Japanese meal on weekends, neve r mentioning thei r society wives or even their children i n the next room eatin g pizza or Kentucky Frie d with horseradish . Sh e watches, breathin g deeply, sighing , wipin g the sweat from he r collarbones and neck . She reaches over and pinches, play s with my nipples as Japanese girls often d o and I am use d to by now.

We stan d i n th e shower s wit h th e littl e ol d wome n wh o tur n u s thi s way an d that , scrubbin g s o hard , an d sh e ask s again , No, what is it that you to do? And befor e I go on about m y neighborhood, abou t th e fathers an d childre n an d th e peopl e wh o star e o n th e street , sh e tell s me of her father , wh o ties her to the bathroo m fixtures by her delicat e wrists an d urinate s o n he r face , bite s he r breast s an d rape s her . Sh e wants to know if this is legal, i f this is normal. I look down a t her body and see the scabs, the scars.

I rid e hom e i n th e twilight—hai r wet , dres s an d hig h heel s bunche d into th e wir e basket o f my bike . Soothe d b y shiatsu, m y muscle s hol d that ho t sor t o f ski n pulsatio n tha t i s s o clos e t o pain , s o clos e t o a

55

morning afte r a nigh t o f se x whe n on e ha s gon e a ver y lon g tim e without sex . I come u p t o the templ e an d sla m o n th e brakes, leavin g arched ski d mark s on th e sidewalk . I climb of f m y bike, wal k throug h the heav y woode n gates , carve d wit h squar e picture s lik e a calendar . Monks pass by on silent, weathere d feet , thei r black robes shiny like oil on pavement i n the falling dark of night. I go to the shrine for the first, the onl y time . I clap once , lightly , an d hea r th e laughte r o f children . Clap again , pus h m y palm s together , an d smel l th e floral massage oi l as I bow. I close my eyes, but I have no prayer.

56

C O M M U N I O N You'd come home late from th e club smelling like sweat, ripe beer, cigarettes . I' d b e asleep in our big white bed behind th e curtains you made for it . I never heard you come in. Always , I awoke to my hand i n your hand , my oil-softened fingers close to your nose. Yo u with your eyes closed, breathin g i n the scent of me without you, breathin g in a whisper from m y agnostic throat that cried ou t oh yes, oh jesus, oh sweet god yes. Searching there in the silence of my thighs, tha t holy ceremony o f self: I was shameless. There were weeks I did i t seven days; there were days I did it in every light. Sof t first, bright middle, clea r dusk. Yo u said why did I even need you and I said I can't live without me , yo u wouldn' t have me if I did. Lik e not having God without eatin g the body of Christ, withou t drinking his blood.

57

G R I E F I. I burn th e picture s i n a pile heape d hig h ato p he r weddin g gown , th e one that' s hun g i n m y dar k close t fo r years . I burn m y bab y blanket , and diapers too. I burn ever y report card. I walk away before th e dress goes up.

II. I thin k abou t i t al l th e time . I wish. Tha t he'l l die . I will i t to b e a n easy death—strok e i n hi s sleep , a cance r h e neve r kne w h e had . I wonder what, i n light of this calm, persisten t longing, I will do when i t happens. I imagine my mother callin g me—of cours e I won't be there when i t happens—and I will comfor t he r an d hop e she doesn't notic e my relief . I'l l tak e th e firs t flight home . I'l l cal l th e funera l director , sing Abide With Me a t th e servic e becaus e i t wil l sa y I'l l sin g i n hi s will. It'l l be one last one more time. I'l l coo k in m y straight, blu e dress and le t hi s sister s slee p i n m y roo m fo r th e week . I'l l sleep . Bu t ho w will I, when h e is gone for good, a supposed memory , tel l my mother I wished for this? I would have to tell her why.

III. When finally I tell m y mother wh y I've burned th e dress, sh e does not cry. I thin k perhap s I'v e bee n to o nic e i n sayin g it . I sa y i t clearer . Your husban d fucke d me , I say. Sh e says , o f course . Well , sh e says,

58

you know , h e use d t o come hom e an d cal l m e a whore and yo u kno w how I hate that language. I made him slee p on the couch. Well , I say, he didn' t slee p o n th e couc h unti l afte r h e cam e i n t o m e an d jus t about smothered m e in hi s fat and hi s juices. Yes , she says, he used to do that to me too he was so messy I can't say I missed him an y of those nights. H e use d t o tr y t o mak e m e d o i t i n th e kitchen , sh e says , an d you kno w ho w I hate t o interrup t m y cooking. Well , I say, h e use d t o come ge t m e ou t o f school an d stic k i t i n m y mout h i n th e compan y car, an d yo u kno w ho w I hat e t o mis s school . Yes , sh e says , car s ar e demeaning. Sh e thinks we're in this together. She doesn't see exactly whose side she's been on .

59

TO T H

E W O L V E

S

I wan t no t t o b e aroun d al l thes e mothers , o r els e I wan t t o b e on e too. And no t jus t th e mothe r o f childre n wh o di e swimmin g befor e the y reach the shore , tin y ribful s o f ski n an d blood , bu t on e wh o ha s packe d a lunch . I wan t t o hav e inche d th e pun y clothe s ove r thei r head s i n betwee n the times I folded an d unfolde d th e clothes, an d folde d the m again . I want to be a mothe r who know s he r bod y wa s a making place , no t a death. (The y cal l thi s sad disease The Wolf fo r ho w i t change s you r face—mark s yo u tha t way — and fo r its terrible hunger. ) I want to be a mother wh o migh t sa y no someday, not just please, always please to the doctors who tell you they warned you , wh o want you not to try. T o b e a woman wh o doesn't cringe when someon e make s a joke, sayin g the word— lupus—as i f i t wer e nothing . I want t o b e a rea l mother . I could

60

have bee n a bette r mother : I shouldVe warne d th e second one , sun g her different songs . I want not to give up on the idea that they're out there, and all I nee d d o i s find them . Al l I nee d d o i s nam e them , Violet, Magnolia. . . . I wan t a t leas t girl s wh o di e lat e enoug h t o b e buried , no t phantom evanescences i n a silve r pan , take n swiftl y awa y b y som e regretful , surely regretful, nurse . I f only I' d neve r aske d But what did you do with her? If only Fd neve r ha d to hear Oh, honey, there was nothing much of anything there. I think there must be some place I can call out in, some place—mayb e in the woods, mayb e on the lake—and m y girls will answer me. M y girls, eaten by the wolf, will have become the wolf. They will run together, lik e twins, the same white undersides. They will call out deep hollow howls to the moon and it will sound lik e this way . . . and this was. . . . And whe n I ru n tha t way , ther e they'l l be , stil l a s pines , movin g so slowly I can' t se e the m mov e a t all . An d the y wil l b e lik e an y othe r woman's

61

children—fair. They'l l hav e eyes black-green lik e mine, wit h that same, sad ferocity. An d that is how they'll know me. I won't have to say to them, but Ym a mother too. I won't have to say, Ym yours.

62

E S C A P E This is how it happens. On e night you get tired, simpl y tire of the sex. You see that sex for you is good behavior, abou t survival. Yo u have never been away from home . Yo u book a flight, pack your bags and in less than a month you'r e there—Japan. Osak a is all grey and freeways hoverin g six-decked over office building s where people work from seve n to nine. It is your father wh o wants you to be a teacher, h e wants you to be happy. H e tells you the money is good. Yo u know. And so you go, you ride the subway, tryin g to find your way to your own apartment. Th e stations are announced b y recording, Namba, Namba, . . . Shinsaibachi, Shinsaibachi. On th e subway the women talk—abou t you , abou t your bare legs and your short shorts. They reac h out , smiling , t o tug at the downy fur o f your arm, the y look at you like they love you, lik e they might mother you, i f only you asked for some mothering. Instea d you go to Shinsaibachi alone , to buy the silk dresses that hang in every window. Yo u buy some blue dresses, and gold, pink-re d an d red-red . Yo u take the subway home, Daikokocho, Daikokocho, and see another jumper slip away, steppin g down to the silent silver tracks.

63

The trai n keep s going. Yo u stand i n your tiny room and put on the red dress, put on your make-up, an d pull your hair back tight. Yo u get the subway. Yo u find the district. Yo u follo w the businessmen. Th e streets are filled with them, i n packs, happy , nearl y howling at another put in day of honest work. Yo u shouldn't be on the street, lookin g the way you do in this dress, wearing the ring your fathe r slipped o n your finger while you slept—whispering int o your neck Never take it off—where th e men yel l out, What club? What club? And the clubs are there, The Lionesse , Secre t Garden, Th e GentleMan, an d you convince yourself to go one more block and then home . Yo u go one block. An d that is when you see it. A big black door with a little gold plaque. Etche d int o the gold the words Cest La Vie. Yo u go inside. An older woman greet s you, yo u tell her your real name. It is a living room, don e up in pink and white. The white is marble; the pink, velvet . An d the velvet couches are filled with the men i n their suits and the girls in their dresses which ar e dresses just like yours, The Mama-sa n take s you by the arm across the bright room to a long table and you sit at the table and watch what the other girls do. What the pretty girls do. It's simple. Yo u pour the drinks. You cut the melon . You peel the skins off Russian peanuts . Th e men talk

64

and i t doesn't take much t o be seen as talking back. Mostl y they like to try out their new English o n you, blurtin g out and hitting each other , sayin g cunt an d twat an d suck it. And all you have to do is laugh, whic h i s easy only if you have laughed tha t way before. Yo u have. Yo u have laughed when you r father tickle d u p your thighs, tickled unti l you peed, an d cried , an d kissed and licke d what he called your funny bon e and i t certainly wasn't your elbow. Yo u knew just how to laugh a t the tickling, jus t how to laugh at the bites. Yo u knew how to smile at your big brother when Dadd y brought him i n to watch. An d so you know just how to look into the eyes of the men to get them to slide the neat triangles of red and purple bills, folded cris p and thin a t the corners, int o the strap of your black bra. You sit like this with a man an d you talk. H e asks what size your breasts are and tell s you why America will never make it in business, unti l midnight , whe n th e lights dim and th e place closes down. Yo u go out in the street with the man an d walk with him t o a hotel. I t is as easy as that. H e signs in, usin g your name, whil e you stand back and wait to ride the quick ride up the elevator to the room . The ma n i s maybe fifty-five, and happy that you're thin, tha t you're young, an d that you're not his wife. Th e roo m is pink and white . Yo u take off all your clothes, thi s

65

you have done before. Yo u do not say a word. Yo u climb onto the bed. H e enters you and you feel nothing . H e pushes in and ou t and you think Father. You worry he's lonely. You worry you'll never go back, o r will. You write a postcard in your head. Th e postcard says this—Dear Dad, What are you and Mom up to? So far Vve met some nice people and I like it here a lot. It's cold I'll need a coat. Mostly my life is just the same. Love Me. Yo u get up off the bed and the man give s you a thick stack of once-folded bills . You go back the next night, th e one after that . Yo u buy more dresses. Write more postcards. And one night, whil e you're on the bed with your legs spread wide, your feet cold, you r eyes staring at the pale pink ceiling, th e man, tha t same first man, slips a ring onto your finger and says that it's For good behavior. As sure as you've escaped, you r life i s just the same.

66

C E R E M O N Y O

F

L I G H T (writers' conference , 1992 ) I am hal f Blackfeet. Ther e are less of us living than ther e are poets in this room. A woman lecture s on race : Don't dare compare your pain with black pain, the pain of the most oppressed, it is not the same. The words go through m e and m y blood, mixe d blood, rises . Half breed. Salt-skin. Cloud-head. Split-soul. Ugly-one. The blood rise s as it does from m y breast to my neck to my face. An d I try to love the flush, how it rises to peek out of me, showin g itself, insisting . With somethin g to prove. As a little girl on the res, white hair flying out behind m e like a flag, begging forgiveness o r surrender, Fd run throug h th e hills, find turtles to talk to, white owls circling above. I loved that my guardians were white, stoo d out, wer e easy to find at night when I was most alone. In the daylight Fd stay at the sides of my grandmothers, their long grey braids down their backs, those climbing ropes to respect. They' d say , But you are already there, old soul! And for a moment F d believe I was past dark hair and innocence .

69

They'd sen d m e into town—those two buildings—alone wher e Td be spit on, ignorin g the chant, witch girl, witch girl, witch! The me n with their rotte d teeth and tins of chew—they sa t all day in front o f that store, with its one row of food, on e hardware, tw o liquor. Grabbin g at me, they' d tangl e their hands in my hair, tanglin g their tongues on my neck, licking off bad medicine to save up for later, us e on their wives. Here at the conference I reach across a table and touc h a black man's head. It' s as if he's inviting me to, leanin g towards me, lookin g up with his amber eyes, the top of his head smoot h and dark like perfection I'v e never known. Dark like Mary Wantz, lik e Mary Broken Horse , lik e truth. I run two fingers across one side of it, slowly , an d late r he writes a poem o f this oppression, thi s rubbing for luck. It is a trade. M y touch, fo r his. H e rapes me, shovin g my legs up over my head, ramming , rammin g into me until I am covered i n blood. I sit in the room full o f poets as he reads—raping m e on the page—filling wit h blood, vanishin g into my name. An d I wish I was back on the res, the way we fled there every time my father los t the house again, o r disappeared. I' m tired , jus t tired. I want to put on jeans, abandon shoe s and shirt, g o back to those hills where, afte r

70

the fast and the sweat, I waited for my vision. I wanted to be old-time, I wanted those old men to see. My grandmothers, the y hoped I' d se e strength. An d at midnight ten me n cam e from town , takin g their turns. Ten little , nin e little, eigh t little indians stood i n a circle and fucked me . Four little, three little, two little drunk men, an d one little blond haire d girl . And the men said , She likes it! and didn't leave for hours, man y bottles, until I began to chant my name. Ne-heh Shlo-owa. Ne-heh Shlo-owa. Snowy Mane. Snow y Mane. Snow y Mane. I threw it over my shoulder and listened t o the darkness and tried to ignore it as I often d o this hair. Thi s hair, th e same color as a woman wh o walked nex t to me on the way out and said , You lived on a reservation? How neat, cool.

7*

C O N V I C T I O N When yo u tal k yoursel f ou t o f lov e yo u wil l hav e no t onl y a sic k feeling deep insid e you r ches t belo w th e plac e you r blac k br a hold s you r breasts like he did, sometimes , i n the night , liftin g the m t o the moonlight , but you will be so cold. Yo u wil l wak e up an d th e ski n o f your breast s wil l be coo l to the touch and you r breat h wil l b e roug h an d short . Yo u wil l no t g o bac k t o sleep, no t without th e tin y blu e pill s you hav e begun t o keep on you r bedsid e table. When yo u tal k yourself ou t o f love you wil l get out quick, an d yo u will be mean. Yo u wil l writ e letter s wit h a lo t o f absolutely positively s in them and yo u wil l sen d th e letters . Yo u wil l thro w a gol d rin g int o a basket of trash and yo u wil l writ e abou t th e rin g an d th e baske t o f trash an d later , when you wake in a sweat , yo u wil l ge t th e gol d rin g out . Whe n yo u tal k yoursel f out of love

72

you wil l g o ou t t o bar s an d other , norma l places , wher e everyon e will become a possibility . Yo u wil l tal k yoursel f int o peopl e wh o coul d b e dangerous. Eve n boring people will seem bearable. Yo u will have a lot of unsafe sex . You will have sex wit h you r eye s close d an d concentrat e o n rememberin g th e name of the person you are fucking. Yo u will say the name over and over until i t sounds like nothing. You will turn you r head away from thei r kiss that tastes like salad oil and you will see something gol d glintin g o n th e bedsid e table . Yo u wil l reac h you r arm ou t to touch it . You wil l touc h th e lov e yo u lef t i n th e darkness . Yo u wil l touc h yourself, fo r you will be the only way back to the one you left. Yo u will say the nam e of the one you lef t ou t lou d unti l i t begin s t o soun d lik e you r own . Yo u wil l put your fingers in to fill your mout h wit h wha t you imagin e i s the ski n you n o longe r get to touch. And tha t tast e wil l drow n ou t ever y othe r taste . Bake d brea d wil l taste like him. Min t gum wil l taste like him. Yo u wil l cr y out hi s name onc e more , an d you will be surprised

73

when there is no answer. Yo u will become quiet then. Yo u will stop saying the name s of things you touch . Whe n yo u tal k yourself ou t o f love it will take a while for you to becom e num b t o you r ow n blin d convictions . Talkin g yoursel f out of love is, after all , what yo u ar e goo d at . Yo u wil l tal k yoursel f ou t o f i t al l an d yo u will feel san e and clea n and right . Yo u wil l g o to mor e bar s an d yo u wil l brin g hom e onl y girls then an d when they say thei r names yo u wil l yaw n i n you r head , closin g of f you r ears , so that you will not have to hear their names . Yo u will make it through th e sex and you will exhaust them so tha t the y wil l fal l aslee p i n you r be d an d yo u wil l watc h the m sleep with their hair on hi s pillow . Yo u wil l kis s them whil e the y sleep . Yo u wil l touc h the hair of a very pretty brunette who looks nothing like the love you no longer have. You will bite her fingernails. You will write your name on her forehead. Yo u will tell yourself she is beautiful. Bu t sh e wil l neve r b e beautifu l enough . N o on e wil l b e beautiful enough . You wil l g o bac k t o th e ba r an d find a ma n wh o i s i n almos t n o ways beautiful, on e who

74

will no t slee p i n you r bed . An d then , yo u wil l tal k yoursel f int o him. Yo u will decide one da y a s you ar e takin g you r showe r t o lov e him . Yo u wil l lov e him. H e will hit you sometimes and yo u will love him. Yo u will not run awa y from this . You will not run away from anything . H e wil l shoo t a gu n once , yellin g a t you , firin g rounds into the ceiling. You will not even flinch. H e will beg you to leave and you will not. You will no t leave the house. Yo u will feel neithe r scared no r ashamed. Yo u will feel stron g and strange and human. Yo u will talk yourself into this love. I t will be easy.

75

T H E F I G H

T

I'm waitin g two weeks now for you to call so I can tell you that I planned it . I planned t o kick you ou t that first time, stealin g your cash, planne d tha t you could onl y go home to your mother and that I then would loo k more appealing to come back to. I planned to be sitting there on the steps in my yellow dress when yo u drove up in the cab from th e airport. I planned to be calm. Yo u got out, sh y and sweet, resigned . I hated that. I was always talking you int o kindness but I hated it . I planned t o argue over the old girlfrien d and I sat curled o n the couch an d heard mysel f saying you fucked her you fucked her I know you did. And my knees were clenched together , hard—m y thigh s held tigh t and hot under the dress. Somethin g gave and I broke apart like glass on tile in the dark of night. I can stil l see myself crossing the room, liftin g my hand, takin g you by the hair and hitting, hitting . I wanted you to hit back. I' m sayin g now that I did it all on purpose—that wa s the reason you were there, then , for me . T o let me be able to fight for once, th e first time. An d that night I let you tie my wrists with thick black silk ribbons behind m y back, wrappe d aroun d an d aroun d

76

and tight all the way up to the elbows. And I closed my eyes as the blindfold cinched . An d the blackness felt like relief. I stood up and I let you take me from behind . I let you walk me across the floor, blindly, i n the heels you brought me , an d do it like that in the window, facin g the neighbors on Tenth throug h th e alley of tress. I pictured the windows filling up with people, lik e my mother, a shadow in the hall at night. She' d pause, loo k in at the dark figures moving on my thin bed, the n wal k away and I' d hea r the fauce t run an d a glass fill and then she' d pas s again. Behin d the blindfold i t was hot and I prayed the neighbors stayed to watch and I let you pulse inside me and i t felt like love and I didn't fight back, becaus e it felt so true to give in again, lik e I always have. I t felt like living.

77

R E T U R N I star t t o follo w thi s woma n around . I ge t i n m y car , wit h m y sunglasses on and I sit across from he r house, waiting for her to emerge. Some times I se e tha t m y fiance's ca r i s parke d ou t bac k i n th e lon g alle y where someone use d t o ti e u p thei r horse . H e park s th e whit e seda n there underneath th e ruste d ol d pol e wit h th e stee l rin g hangin g a t the top. Usually, though , sh e leave s th e plac e withou t him , leavin g hi m I imagine to pa w throug h th e drawer s o f workou t clothe s an d socks , th e closets filled wit h leathe r coats , ol d secretar y dresse s pushe d wa y t o the back, and th e bi g blac k bag s filled wit h th e negligees , th e T-backs , spangled bras, the five-inch heels. I imagine hi m holdin g on e o f those heels in his palm like a cup, bringing it up to his nose to smell the leather, powder , spilled beer

78

and smoke , th e pal e sweat y skin . Whil e I' m pullin g ou t behin d her, getting on th e freeway behin d her , I see him ther e sitting on th e floor to her closet, liftin g ou t the black leather lace d corset , th e shiny plasti c thigh lengt h boots, the little cans of travel-sized hairspra y an d hose . I see him sli p a T-back, pink , into the back pocket o f his jeans , folde d ther e beneath hi s wallet soft and so flat. By no w sh e wil l hav e drive n int o th e smal l parkin g lo t o f th e Silky Lady, he r thin hip s dippin g int o th e trun k o f he r ca r t o hois t th e bi g ba g out. Sh e will have tossed he r hai r ove r once , an d bac k again , makin g th e curl s g o wild. An d when the doo r open s an d sh e walk s i n I'l l se e he r jok e with th e door man an d i n this noontime ligh t she'l l disappea r int o the darknes s o f that place as if she were a mermaid , unafrai d t o div e int o th e water y blac k o f a cave . The doorma n will loo k acros s th e lo t toward s m e i n m y ca r an d I will duc k a little and fidget with my ring. And after I sit a while listening to the distant bump of music

79

starting up, I'l l tur n th e engine over, tur n around , an d drive . I'l l pass her hous e again o n th e wa y to mine , drivin g righ t b y this tim e t o se e hi m standing there in th e windo w drinking tea , he r kitte n standin g o n hi s shoulder . I'll drive straight home. Ge t int o th e showe r whe n it' s hot . I'l l fill m y pal m wit h shaving cream that's peac h an d foam y an d sprea d i t lik e a salv e betwee n m y legs. I'l l take the razor . I'll hoo k m y foot u p o n th e ho t meta l faucet . An d whe n th e lip s and legs and ass are smooth an d pin k an d bare , I'l l tur n th e water off . I'l l pu t o n my thong bikini bottom, bendin g ove r i n th e ful l lengt h mirror . I'l l d o m y hair , high. I'l l do my make-up, thick, stuf f shoe s and hos e and short silk robes into a bag. I'l l pu t on too much Spellbound. I'l l ge t i n th e ca r i n m y cu t of f shorts , m y smalles t T, m y highest heels that h e bough t me—bringin g the m hom e t o m e tie d u p wit h thick black silk ribbons, telling m e t o wear them onl y when h e said—an d drive . An d o n the freewa y I won't thin k abou t him . I won't thin k abou t th e wa y he bough t a bike and lef t i t

80

in m y kitche n wit h a lov e not e scrawle d i n purpl e crayon ; th e way he asked me to be his wife, wit h his limp dick still shoved half up my ass. I think all about her . The wa y sh e throw s tha t hai r an d ho w he r bod y i s s o smal l it's like a child's , wit h hip s tha t fit firml y int o th e muscle d legs , breast s that barely stand ou t fro m th e ribs . I thin k abou t he r voic e th e nigh t sh e called at three a.m. , hysterical tha t th e kitte n go t away . I thin k abou t he r th e wa y I used to think abou t him, savorin g ever y detai l o f her face , wonderin g a t th e tast e of her, th e feel, and whethe r sh e stir s mil k an d suga r int o he r blac k te a o r onl y sugar, o r only milk. I thin k o f he r kiss , ho w sof t he r smal l pin k mout h mus t be . I think of her scent. I promise mysel f I'l l jus t wait for he r i n th e lot , fac e he r an d tel l her she's not th e kin d o f woma n I admire , t o pleas e leav e u s alone . I'l l tell her that dancin g nud e i s jus t wha t hold s th e res t o f u s back , jus t what allows the me n t o se e u s al l a s sluts . I promis e mysel f I'l l b e gentle , make a pact

81

with myself to be nice. And so I arrive. I sit in my car and wait. I sit four hour s and wai t for he r shif t t o be over. I see her sitting on a stool onc e when th e door swings open, ove r th e shoulde r o f som e youn g gu y goin g in . An d sh e comes out. An d I get out, slamming the door behind me . I walk towards her, expectin g her to stop at the sight of me. She doesn't . Sh e doesn' t eve n notic e m e a s I walk righ t b y he r with my bag in one hand , my leathe r jacke t o n m y shoulders . I' m sur e sh e doesn' t eve n think of me as she drives home t o her yello w house wit h th e whit e fenc e i n fron t an d th e cat in the window. I' m sur e I never enter her min d a s she puts the tea kettl e to boil and I put my hand int o the han d of a man who comments that my fingernails are real. H e tells me I'm u p next, tha t he can giv e me all the hour s I want. H e chooses the three songs for me and shows me to th e dressin g roo m wher e I pu t o n m y outfi t whil e a tal l brunette sprays the back of my hair. Th e musi c goes on, I go out, an d I dance. The roo m is dark and I can barely se e th e face s o f th e me n lookin g u p a t m e ther e o n th e little wood stage.

82

The musi c i s loud , bu t stil l m y heel s mak e noise . An d o n th e second son g I do take of f m y br a an d I ca n se e i n th e smoke d mirro r tha t m y breasts are large and high . I can se e the men behin d m e smiling as I turn m y back on the m and move. I turn around the n an d fac e on e ma n an d mak e m y breast s roc k bac k and forth, le t them mov e that way. I kneel to let him slid e the folded bil l against my hip. I turn and bend, m y hair on m y heel s o n th e dirty floor, m y ass there s o close to his face , slowly shifting m y weight from on e leg , th e other . On e leg , th e other . Th e thir d son g comes on and I forget the men and th e musi c an d I dive int o th e darknes s tha t feel s lik e a cave in my heart. I t feels so familiar, lik e love . I lose mysel f i n m y self, tha t par t o f me wh o wants so much t o give in, t o jus t g o ahea d an d b e Daddy' s littl e sweeti e i n th e ruffle d fancy panties , t o jump int o calloused hand s an d t o sit on a stick y lap . I want t o kiss the ho t mouth an d taste a bit of what it is to be wanted beyond doubt. I want to feel again what it is to be worshiped that way . T o b e love d lik e that . An d a s I driv e hom e wit h th e cash tucked int o my

83

back pocket , afte r havin g promise d t o b e bac k o n Monday , I know that I'll neve r go back. Tha t I can't g o back. Tha t n o ma n wil l eve r ador e m e that way again.

84

H U M A N N A T U R

E

Why do you think some people are more inclined to violence? It's New Year's Eve, three years since we split, a sad wave of fingers around a neck, hysterics , police, instan t regret. I expect the same old answer, th e one I heard each tim e you'd com e home with a new cut above the eye, a long rip in m y new shirt—It's just the way that you re raised. But that's not what you say, no t this time. We're i n an S.F . bar , packe d full o f people expecting a time they're sure not to have: easy, hopeful . I've gone to the restroom an d on the way back, walkin g slowly in m y dress and tall heels, trying not to slip on the polished whit e pine floor, one man say s to another, That's one nasty looking cunt Yd like to get into there . . . as if I can't hear him, a s if perhaps the small waist of my tight dress has squeezed the voice right out of me. I spend the next hour convincing you not to hit him. I tell you again why it isn't worth it , fighting back. Bu t inside I would rathe r see you rip his throat from him , leav e him silent. Jus t like we're silent—about th e past and the fain t scars hidden beneat h m y dress. About the forced sex , the jail time. Th e things I've forgiven becaus e I thought I understood.

85

I figured you did what you learned how to do and I did what I learned le t be done to me. An d after yo u I let it be done again, didn' t learn. I got a girlfriend wh o dressed me up in vinyl and rubber , smile d a s she hit me, crie d as she kissed me, an d whispered int o my ears what we both knew, You re here for my pleasure, you re here to obey. And I did, lik e I always had, lik e I did the day I learned how to tell time, o n the little square oven clock. Tha t day my father decide d I was old enough—four—to serv e him. Old enoug h t o tell time meant old enough t o stand on a chair and make that first drink—two sifters o f vodka over ice in a short glass at five. Old enough t o stay up late. Sometimes I went to bed anyway, earl y with my mother and my brother, an d he let me go. But he came later to get me, laying the cold sifter o n my pillow, nudgin g me awake, rasping , You re old enough to know better—when will you ever learn. And I did, o r thought I did, finally, when I held that girlfrien d down on the bed by the hair at the nape of her long white neck. I hit her. I hit her face, he r breasts. I hit her in the ears one handed an d holdin g her down like that until she at last quit her crying and stopped fighting back, unti l her body was as soft and pliable as a child. I made her say I'm sorry . I tell you this as the crowd counts backwards and it' s then I ask, Why do you think a person becomes inclined to violence?

86

And this is when you say it—the thin g that saves me now fro m shame or regret, tha t keeps me from wonderin g why I've lived it, this letting and no t letting,this give-and-have-taken life . It's the humans nature to survive, welcome to the living.

87