Poetry | March 01, 1995
Stillwater
Mandy Dowd
Winner of the 1995 Editors’ Prize for Poetry.
Intro:
my ally: wasn’t any drug could make me recall
not any could make me forget
this life backing me out death’s door
but—how can I tell you?—keeping me here
eg. a psychiatrist asked
what are your three greatest problems?
I lost my shoes.
What else? I lost both of them.
How did you get those scars on your legs?
Losing my shoes.
1.
Cicadas cut through the muffle like a saw through sand
piling in on itself
I was sailing on the river, only sailing
a squall came on the horizon
I don’t remember
the horizon. I meet it here
each moment
horizontal to the next : at the foot of the bed
my father looked to my mother who looked to my father
2.
But how, but why?
There is no sound for it
my voice
stuffed in the oxygen tent
There is only my breath, my body creating
space to let the air come through.
This much I knew
These hands bound mute
these hands round the tiller slipping
a slow fat-cat boat into the storm
the river was still
and I was glass
these hands bound and stuffed
the canvas sail in its bag hands coiled
the mainsheet
the rope round itself
thirteen times I counted and once to bind the knot
fourteen years, these hands
bound the noose
slung from the landing
I slipped into
swung from the stairs
these hands hung
3.
amnesia: the miracle
of a single clean moment
a vessel socked in the fog
involute horn brayed from her bow
She would blow in like wind
from the north—I would undress
like a beach in the south
Again and again naked to the tempest, tasting
Brinking one moment to the next
Wave under wave under her
though, the stupor of my health,
the healthy year
4.
My numbed out fingers
clung in the oxygen mist as if
again I tried to dock the boat
I sat on my mattress, wobbled
in a heaving storm
darkness rocked me on her inland sea
Nothing… in the realm of necessity
Except what my hands could do*
I held the tiller coiled the sheets tossed
the bowline off her prow
my father from the doorway watched
me navigate and fall
back, I threw up
in my lungs
5.
it was something
undone, unsaid
6.
The sailboats move on the water
when I am alone in the room
7.
I’ve lost count of the years I’ve been ill, I can remember,
8.
If you had to die would you rather
freeze to death or burn? we used to ask
It was a casual question
Oh burn my sister said
It would be much quicker
I would rather freeze having been that way before
I slept in a tent up behind the house
without a sleeping bag
to see how much cold I could stand
9.
amnesia
this moment
a perfect integer
10.
The mist a vapor between us, and I
for the first time saw
the mirror on the concrete wall,
morning still as nurses can hold it
still as stopped breath but I pushed
out of the oxygen tent,
shuffled to the sight of myself
My hands held my hands, held all I knew
looking through the child I was, only
pieces remained afloat
in the stillwater of an eye,
parted in the flood of an other
They pulled me back
alone to the clean air
tucked away with an image memory now
split wide the horizon, the bed against my body breaking
down the infinite, only the mist a vapor
At last they gathered round
no evidence in my veins
we’d all held life in our hands
They’d severed an artery, spilled its blood, filled it again
and opened wombs, lifted infants out
These interns with clipboards in studious rows
prepared to lift the veil and mark
across my throat the open wound
stretched like a grin
turned them to stone
in their stiff white coats
•
Late August the cat-boat sat
on the river, swung round her mooring
as the tide came in and out
*Adrienne Rich, “Integrity”
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