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Already the World
Victoria Redel
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Already the World
Victoria Redel
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"I like Victoria Redel's poems because of their braveness and their lucidityâŠ.There is no flight here to incoherence; the poems speak plainly and, in some cases, beautifully. The music is lovely and the tone, distinctiveâŠ." âGerald Stern
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Thema
LiteratureThema
PoetryI
THE PLAYER
At noon I watched men playing basketball.
I hung against the fence envying them,
the way they didnât look at each other
but drove the rough ball up and down court
passing it through their ready hands.
I wanted to be these men.
They were not the bodies of soft edges.
It was vertical jump and wrist, their breasts
shook tensely coming down from a shot.
It seemed that nothing in the city loved a woman,
even the street where steam
rose through the black grates lifting up my skirt.
Thereâs not much more from those months.
Yellow lilies arranged in Mason jars,
when the petals unhinged and fellâ
little rafts on the furniture.
I lay around in front of a rotating fan, listening
to a woman close by practicing her opera scales.
Italian songs twisted in air currents through my room.
All around me the buildings were fat with women
singing about love or saying nothing for days.
I cared nothing for Traviata or Don Giovanni.
I wanted only to be a player
with a disciplined body;
to pass the ball like a globe,
easily and without looking,
dunking that round world, hoop after hoop,
with no other ambition than to move.
TALKING ANGEL
It was an American Bluebirdâpainted turquoise, racks for backpacks, hash rolled with tobacco. It got stuck overnight at the Swiss border. She says she watched an Australian woman fuck the bus driver. It is my roommateâs story from her trip across Europe. I keep asking her to tell it to me. She says the driver said something over and over. The seats, covered in green plastic, made a damp popping noise. A word starting with the letter D. Tonight I tell her he was cooing Mon Dieu, though other nights it has been doucement or diable. Last time they were sitting up. She was crouched above him. Now he is kneeling, her back to him, an outline of moisture where her hands press on the window. Her brother is on the bus asking questions. âWhere is the food?â âWhere is the extra blanket?â At dawn the bus continues to Athens. They all get off. Now my roommate wants to tell me what else she saw. It is all monument and historic event. I say, âThe popping noise, thatâs the Australian girl.â If months later the girl tried to lift the driverâs face up to the face of her imagination, I could not say. And could I say if later the brother and sister spoke of the night or could never speak of the night? I want to know who my roommate would be if she could be any of them. âBut I was there,â she says. I tell her I am the girl. I am her shadow flung across other seats. I am that girl talking angel. She is talking angel rising, blue wing net, angel updraft, wing beat. He says this time in slow American, âDamn baby, thatâs nice.â My roommate says, âOne more time. And then thatâs that. There was snow. That was why we waited out the night.â âBy the end,â I say, âit wasnât really sticking, just flurries settling on the window sashes. The driver could have continued.â Think of the shushing sound that cars make, tires passing over snow, yellow light from headbeams slicing through the bus. Think of the light slipping over the spent couple. That is something, donât you think? To wake for a second, see a thing all lit up. What was it? Whatever it was, now it is everything.
SOME CRAZY DANCING
I think I must have spent great chunks of those years
watching the girls and boys on American Bandstand,
the frug and the boogaloo shaking through their furious bodies.
I stood by the TV and danced along. I wish
I could say I was another girl, that my stories were those
of the girl who walked off-set, leading a boyâhis license
snug in a back pocketâinto shadow. I wish I could say
I was the girl who knew what to do with her tongue.
What I wanted in those years was mostly everything:
The neatly belted torsos, the girlâs high tits,
all the worn places on the guyâs jeans.
What I wanted was not to have to do one thing.
And in front of that TV as I shimmied, ponied and posed,
one afternoon I heard a manâs voice somewhere close by saying
âand this I remember exactlyâFuck me, fuck baby, do me.
Of course the voice was inside me. Not hard to imagine why,
but harder to imagine how my own indecency undid me.
I flipped the channel, then shut it off and went out
into a nest of suburban streets; walking past landscaped
lawns, shaped bushes, cut-back flowering trees, the slate
front walks up to d...