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[poem in full]
generation by joanna klink
0
I wasn't born into torment.
My soul wasn't swathed
in sweat and decrepitude.
I alighted.
Spare me the story of your misery.
1
I was born into outline.
The doctor fell to his palms, saying something.
I was coaxed into outline: limelight,
deep sink, dripping. The nurse swayed,
I swallowed and was slapped. It happened quickly.
It did happen quickly.
2
It made me want to cry
she said blankly.
Say no more said the guru
and grinned.
He had
no teeth.
As for the student,
he thumbed a few pages,
he ran a forefinger
through his slick hair,
he lent an air to the proceedings of
"I have helped myself out of the crying."
3
She stood creviced between the wall and the screen.
Their arms are picks, she thought, their skirts
part of a plot. She looked again:
dark men, in suits, in sweaters, eyeing everyone.
They know what they want, she thought,
and was immediately canonized.
She wished her guts were made of string,
that her nose were small and insightful.
She thought someone might want
to look more closely.
I am the force in the body, please respond
Yes, she thought, in the end there's mostly
exhaustion. I am wanting this and going there.
tomorrow I will do this and this.
4
When I scan past the building turned black
and its cast-iron enclave, past the gulls
vaguely cawing for white bread,
over those walls I am nothing,
less than the soot whipped off the sill,
less than what you would casually call
your lower bound-
Leave me and I'll find you.
I'll meet you by the streaming stone facade.
I'll meet you and love you, I'll
marry you, I'll marry you,
and we can dwell in the ruddy muck
of "city" or "country" or "symphony."
5.
Her head tilted inadvertently sideways.
She was gratified to think
no one had noticed. And still
she carried on admirably, never
smart or indignant. She took turns
driving to work, driving home.
But the looks shot her way.
She could see there was guilt.
she grew imperceptibly old
on hearing that her parents
would not sue the doctor
who gave her double vision
while trying to fix the waves in her ear.
They didn't think she would notice
And she understood. Tilting,
she felt, her whole body.
She stayed in the car, perfectly sturdy,
sun seeping onto the dashboard.
(Let me tell you
she sang. Softly.
To herself.)
6
I could say this is terribly ugly,
this look you are giving me.
In fact I would say
considering the nose,
considering the space of the forehead,
there is no room or beauty
It is quite impossible for beauty.
7
Does it matter what my body recalls?
Let us not move from the thought.
Let us dash it to pieces.
Let us flatten the page.
Let us flatten the page between these two palms.
Who says the days are long.
Who says there's always something.
Who says there's always something
left to read. Which will move you.
0
I wasn't born into torment.
My soul wasn't swathed
in sweat and decrepitude.
I alighted.
Spare me the story of your misery.
1
I was born into outline.
The doctor fell to his palms, saying something.
I was coaxed into outline: limelight,
deep sink, dripping. The nurse swayed,
I swallowed and was slapped. It happened quickly.
It did happen quickly.
2
It made me want to cry
she said blankly.
Say no more said the guru
and grinned.
He had
no teeth.
As for the student,
he thumbed a few pages,
he ran a forefinger
through his slick hair,
he lent an air to the proceedings of
"I have helped myself out of the crying."
3
She stood creviced between the wall and the screen.
Their arms are picks, she thought, their skirts
part of a plot. She looked again:
dark men, in suits, in sweaters, eyeing everyone.
They know what they want, she thought,
and was immediately canonized.
She wished her guts were made of string,
that her nose were small and insightful.
She thought someone might want
to look more closely.
I am the force in the body, please respond
Yes, she thought, in the end there's mostly
exhaustion. I am wanting this and going there.
tomorrow I will do this and this.
4
When I scan past the building turned black
and its cast-iron enclave, past the gulls
vaguely cawing for white bread,
over those walls I am nothing,
less than the soot whipped off the sill,
less than what you would casually call
your lower bound-
Leave me and I'll find you.
I'll meet you by the streaming stone facade.
I'll meet you and love you, I'll
marry you, I'll marry you,
and we can dwell in the ruddy muck
of "city" or "country" or "symphony."
5.
Her head tilted inadvertently sideways.
She was gratified to think
no one had noticed. And still
she carried on admirably, never
smart or indignant. She took turns
driving to work, driving home.
But the looks shot her way.
She could see there was guilt.
she grew imperceptibly old
on hearing that her parents
would not sue the doctor
who gave her double vision
while trying to fix the waves in her ear.
They didn't think she would notice
And she understood. Tilting,
she felt, her whole body.
She stayed in the car, perfectly sturdy,
sun seeping onto the dashboard.
(Let me tell you
she sang. Softly.
To herself.)
6
I could say this is terribly ugly,
this look you are giving me.
In fact I would say
considering the nose,
considering the space of the forehead,
there is no room or beauty
It is quite impossible for beauty.
7
Does it matter what my body recalls?
Let us not move from the thought.
Let us dash it to pieces.
Let us flatten the page.
Let us flatten the page between these two palms.
Who says the days are long.
Who says there's always something.
Who says there's always something
left to read. Which will move you.