- 96 pages
- English
- ePUB (mobile friendly)
- Available on iOS & Android
About This Book
This collection is "an astonishing achievement" that renders grief and illness in "supremely lyrical, brilliantly imagined... poetry of the highest order" (Connie Wanek). A grim prognosis, brain cancer, leaves the speaker in Kirkpatrick's Odessa fighting for her life. The tumor presses against her amygdalae, the "emotional core of the self, " and central to the process of memory. In poems endowed with this emotional charge but void of sentimentality, Kirkpatrick sets out to recreate what was lost by fashioning a dreamlike reality. Odessa, "roof of the underworld, " a refuge at once real and imagined, resembles simultaneously the Midwestern prairie and a mythical god-inhabited city. In image-packed lines bearing shades of Classical heroism, Kirkpatrick delivers a personal narrative of stunning dimension. Winner of the Lindquist & Vennum Prize for Poetry Winner of the Minnesota Book Award
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PERSEPHONEāS ENTRY
The beloved disappear.
of water dripping
although the ground is saturated with ashes.
Bring fruit the color of bloodstain.
Green apples. Matches.
Swimming too soon after lunch.
Talking to strangers. Not this
Work. Sleep alone
or crammed against others.
What I could have done
differently. What I
didnāt do.
Men come at dawn and start digging.
I expect it will take a long time
to learn they find nothing.
Small room. Shrouds. Eye to eye
with a beak
and talons. Kept
in a low place.
Thatās what they say when
caught off guard.
Or to protect their own interests.
I remember lessons
with flowers on the table, learning
the name for papery carpels
In a pome.
An apple. I remember seeing
We held out apples to horses.
THE ATTORNEY: from THE ITALO POEMS
You have to choose.
You have to get an attorney.
Go downtown near the steeple and derelict pigeons
where the bells alone cost millions.
Walk into corporate heights, crying,
state your name at the desk,
weep at a table longer than your dining room,
decide what to keep and give up.
Smart and tough
without love, the attorney
knows the law, knows the patterns,
as birds this time of year, sensing winter and frantic
to get what theyāre after,
sometimes tear wings when they come to the window.
Broken, a window screen cuts but it keeps birds outside;
stays invisible enough to show light.
This is called cutting your losses.
This is called seeing the big picture. Even a kind man
speaks in numbers, measures
what was promised,
what was denied, broken, lost.
The attorney asks and your answer
costs ten thousand dollars.
You thought there was a story that made your life a river,
a corner at Clement Street and the Park Presidio Bakery
where you gave a man your dream and your man, your man
is gone now. The train has left
the station. No use. Listening.
Tired footsteps. Stairs.
Ahead of you your husband is waiting with a lover.
The attorney knows hell hath no fury
like you. Like yours.
No laws providing maintenance
when the roof leaks, the car floods,
you have no one to touch you and almost no
savings. The attorney draws up papers
that describe your role as parent, decide
whether to return the minor child
before or after fireworks.
how your nipples, swollen with infection, bled.
How you loved. Your husband.
This is called giving over to emotion.
This is called a business negotiation.
Youāve never read a spreadsheet and so must trust
the attorney to know
which judge, which statute, which waiver,
which gabardine suit to lean forward in, murmuring
āmental health issues.ā
The attorney represents you
but measures two sides of the story.
What is truer than the truth?
Floating rate. Income stream.
Once you touched a babyās fontanel.
The name for what the attorney touches
is money. You need an attorney
to touch money for you.
affection when you have been stupid,
torn, and forsaken.
You want to smear your hands across
the attorneyās suit when you proofread the settlement.
You look out the skyscraper window
without screens, without
pigeons bobbing on ledges.
Cling to your story
and try to tell
the truth. You owe the attorney money
and you have to choose.
FAMILY COURT
touched skin,
took a vow, made a child,
broke a promise.
Maybe we made mistakes.
Now change fractures the core
of lives we knew,
brings us to benches, hard seats
along the wall.
rub against each other,
having nowhere else to go,
they crack or shatter.
āBrittle failureā geologists call it.
Bodies are mostly water.
We think people want to be good.
Inside weāre screened for weapons.
where others wait too, stunned
by the passage weāve booked,
the ticket that delivers us
to steerage,
the lowest deck on a journey.
We might have attorneys or
orders for protection,
push strollers, hide bruises with scarves.
Blinking te...
Table of contents
- Title Page
- ALSO BY PATRICIA KIRKPATRICK
- Dedication
- AURA
- PARIETAL
- CAIRN
- NOTES
- Acknowledgments
- Copyright Page