Animals of Habit

Catherine Pierce

• Publisher: The Kent State University Press
• Year: 2013
• eBook ISBN: 9781612777788
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Poesia

"In 'Love Poem to the Phrase Let's Get Coffee, ' Catherine Pierce writes 'I adore your elegant manner, one hand on the car door, the other on the ass.' She writes with her own tricky elegance, one that acknowledges yet adores language's self-serving grace. Pierce deftly blends repetition with sophisticated syntax, and a sinister wit glows inside the emotional wisdom of her vision. Animals of Habit is an exhilarating book."—Andrew Hudgins "If I didn't know the poet personally, I'd think the name Catherine Pierce was a pseudonym, for these poems are not merely edgy, they are razor-sharp-they disembowel. What an extraordinary command of structure, persona, and humor this poet has! In one fell swoop, she has re-invented the 'love' poem and eschewed both pretentiousness and the anti-intellectual by being always smart and entertaining."—Kathy Fagan

II

WHILE YOU SLEEP, I WATCH MYSELF DIE

It happens all sorts of ways:

spinal meningitis, a lump I’ve ignored

for too long, a lung collapsing

sudden as gunshot. My vanishing plays

like a reel-to-reel movie—I never

stop going away. In the library-

quiet of the bedroom, I hear the rush

of sudden stillness, the scrape

of the lowering-down. And so many

details to consider: the embalming,

the makeup, the oak or maple

casket. I want none of it. But

when is it closer than now, our bodies

glistening, the old-book smell of sex

still on us? I’m not nearer

to the earth, or ethereal, or holy.

I’m jagged. The next step

could splinter bones and bring me

to my knees. In the corner, the lamp

leans like a crutch. I leave you

dropping through sleep and move

to the window. The moon

shimmers, a placebo. As it falls,

I close my mouth around it.

EVOLUTION

You wake to coffee and your lover says, It’s just over.

Yet everything smells the same. He goes, and you lust over

all hot things: the bacon in the pan, the shower steam.

The dishes pile in the sink. The cat fattens and the dust over

light bulbs builds. You drift like fog, ignore the phone.

You don’t drive much. The hubcaps begin to rust over.

You should shower, buy groceries, but still, there’s some appeal to this:

the tangled hair, the quivering. You inspire intrigue, not disgust. Over-

night, it seems, the garden bursts into saffron and ruby.

You decide you’re evolving, and it’s hard, but you must. Over

time, you will become feral and bright as the weeds. You glow

and preen. Once, your lover drops by. He is thin, but you’ve fussed over

him enough, and besides, he asks the wrong questions. You smile

and nod. You are polite but reticent. He seems nonplussed over

the smallest things: the garden, your hair like larkspur. That night,

winter drops its hammer. You watch dry wood combust. Over

the crack of the door, the wind is a siren. Soon it snows. Icicles

pierce the light. Whiteness. The wi...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Halftitle Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Acknowledgments
• I
• II