RELATED TO THE BUTTERCUP, BLOOMS IN SPRING
I.
What do we do with these huge gifts of the throat and tongue?
How do we manage?
II.
I used to believe that nobody but me could see
the stars shimmering riot outside my window.
Mama, my stars are here, I’d say, my stars.
I welcomed them with a notebook, toothmarked Bic,
and teeny revolutions crammed into the stingy space
of a college-ruled line. I wrote until the precise script
wandered, until the stars blinked themselves dim
and said good-night Patricia Ann, it’s late even for us
and it hurts to watch how hard you dream.
One morning, I woke to find whole pages filled
with a single word—anemone. Over and over, ens
and ems straining to stern Palmer Method hilltops.
Anemone. Anemone.
Ms. Stein,
I can’t explain the dizzy I felt the day you chalked
that word on the board and said,
Who can pronounce this?
I wish I could grant you breath here,
but all I recall is dark hair vaguely flipped, a slight sour
to you, and the wary smile of a young Jewish girl
teaching on Walnut Street, just down the block
from your million miles away.
Funny, how you twisted me
by introducing a word
you figured would stump us all,
funny how I bellowed the odd accents
and a light grew slow and unbeckoned behind your eyes.
That one word was sweet silver on my new tongue,
it kept coming back to my mouth,
it was the very first sound I wanted to own,
to name myself after,
I wanted no one else to ever utter this.
Even now, listen to how anemone
circles, turns round, and surprises itself.
That day I gave that word a home just under my breath
and at least a hundred times
I drew on the drug of it, serving it up to the needing air.
All this before I knew what it meant.
(If you never remember feeling that way about a single word,
sensing a burn in the sheer power of its sound, lift up
your poetry—all those thick, important pages—and see that
it is resting on nothing. Then shred those sheets, toss them
to sky, and lie prone beneath the empty flutter. You must
own one word completely before you can claim another.)
Ms. Stein, go ahead,
make me nine again, take me back
to when I wasn’t afraid of anything
except long division and the words Go pull me off a switch,
when Karen Ford and I pulled our panties down
and wriggled up against each other for new taboo,
Ms. Stein, I couldn’t stop writing.
I wrote myself angled and tress-topped,
I wrote myself hero, I wrote myself white,
Cherokee, cheerleader, distressed damsel in Alan Ladd’s arms,
I wrote myself winged, worshipped, I wrote long stories
where I was always the primary twinkle, the beacon,
inevitably envied. I wrote anemone over and over
in rigid hand, the loops and hilltops perfect.
Anemone. Anemone.
When I was nine, the barbershops left their doors open
and all manner of glorious bullshit spilled out,
charms and curses spritzed with that mango oil
that makes black heads shimmer. Balls of sliced nap
slip sliding the tile, my people razzing and razored,
the dozens in effect, sentence songs, spontaneous doo-wop
where any two lines came together to make a corner.
I was little woman, sweet little crumbsnatcher,
baby you a pretty one,
won’t be long before those boys start ...