Erin Virgil Vol 1

8/8/2019 Erin Virgil Vol 1

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Poemsby

Erin M. Virgil______________

Volume One

BoulderPublications.com

Boulder, Colorado U.S.A.

2010


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con en

Copyright 2010 Erin M. Virgil

eBook design by Steve McMichael / boulderpublications.com

Introduction .....................................................

Relevant portents.............................................

Dream #3.........................................................

paranormal sonnet...........................................

July ....................................................................

Untitled ............................................................

a bell.................................................................a bell(cont.) ........................................................

Four grimm snapshots ....................................

Backstage.........................................................

One-Way Journey by Man To Moon

Is Suggested.....................................................thin poem ........................................................

About the author ............................................
http://boulderpublications.com/http://boulderpublications.com/


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n ro uc onThe poems in this book were written across several places ayears. The only commonality between pieces is that they we

all written for grad school workshops. I cant remember wh

assignments were, despite having the poems in front of me;

sure if this is good or bad. I read Backstage at a bar in Bro

in the fall of 2008, and again, much changed, at a writing

department event a few weeks ago. Relevant portents appea

in the 2009 Naropa magazine (r)evolve; other than this, no

of the following poems has been previously published. Wha

else is vital to tell you? Dream #3 was an actual dream I had

Backstage is also a true story. Id like to thank Steve McMic

for his kind help in designing this book; my poems have nevlooked better.

Erin M.


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e evan por enProceed in,

the Year of the Ox.

I ask Ganesh, who sits on a giant speaker,the mouth of the house,

to bless the confusion he sees, ignore the transgressions. Its mostly innocenI keep insisting, the forgetfulness lifts.

is this relatedto my dream last night?

I founda ratty pack of cards under a theater seat

opened the box and tried to get one out;

they were glued together, no faces up, no clues there

so, I woke up and scrambled to honor the household gods:Kali, mother, start it all again.Buddha, beautiful elephant, your face is a little membrane. I cant pass thrGanesh, your mouse is made of steel & feathers. Is your broken tusk a

tunnel? We both write hidden lettersSt. Anthony: I even lost your face

look down patchwork pantheon, are you awake?

Outside are winters words, visible invisibleswind chimes work hard, sound off

wind from the northtonight a new moon


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Sittingnext to a lost one,usually hidden from me.

He was just as tall asthe statue he has been

and hair was often covering his face.I was, typically, exposed

a loose pink and blue bathing suitwaiting to dive into the high school poolwanting to hide my body, he had changed

it, everything looked ugly now.All I had rehearsed, I forgot:we only spoke a few words,polished white stones passed between cold hands,and then a whistle blew and I

rose and walked to the waters edgewhere other young girls were swimming, were fishdove in

downdown,

past the end of the meter marks

he was watchingstillI felt his eyes follow me inmyheadhitthe wallandfell apartblood crept out, downin front of my eyesa silent film run slowI sank quietlya polished white stone.No one noticed.The other fish swam over my open headwith my last look upIlookedfor him butsaw only

spinning blooda halo

ream


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Saturdaymorning.

I get caught out of time

swallows are passing apostrophestomatoes escape their cages

and next doorthey plant tiki torches

with the tags still on

and the cicadas are awakehalfway there and then some

I cant account for January or Marchtheir movie has been lost,

the dialogue unmemorable.

July is like a pair of old glasses:slow downlook now

His last life he was a paranormal

investigator and now hes haunted

by unsatisfied former clients, long

dead and gone to the other side where theyve

found he was usually wrong or lying.

In the present tense this man is just a

humble accountant who cant understand

why his lamps fly at walls and sheets float off.

-ormal

onnet

u


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Whenwe pare it downlet it lie

look awaywe run the risk

of the room explodingwill it hold this much current?it already has

a hole where the money wasa shadow growing from the names we forget

Our bodies line up eye to eyewe say no, that was a long time ago

and somewhere a pen rolls under a car seata watch falls off a dresser

a key is lost in a couchand part of your map

and my mapare rubbed out

maps we had before we met.some ruined countries leave traces, pieces of rivers& when we pare it down

let it lie

look awaythe rivers rise

i.

the fat lady has it easy

she is what she is what she is.the tattooed man rests calmly in his skin.he knows how his story will end. his tattoos are not eternal.and the wolf boy is contentchasing rats under the tilt o whirland stealing popcorn from childrendistracted by the miniature pony.the strong man stands erect, complete. his mustache curls with integrity.

only i am halved.if you see me from the right side you will say,what a lovely woman

approach me from the left and im one of the guys.straight towards me and see two separate pieceshalf man half womana fruitless coupling.two retreating halves, separate down to the bone,alive,irreconcilable

ii.

I wish I could go one day without thinking about having a baby and suicide, u

in that order. Sitting in a tank of lukewarm water, watching people watching Its important to make eye contact or else they think Im ashamedto wear this costume! Its just a costume, I can part my legs. Im wearing threa half green bathing suits sewn together. Theyre too tight and still look like bsuits, but the water is so cloudy you cant see the seams. When I think about lately, it never happens in this tank, no matter how bad the nights going.

n e a e


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iii.

i am the larger halfi am the smaller half, the should-have-died side

why did we hold on to each other in the beginning?i will die alone

i am on the lefti am on the right

i love heri hate her

i abhori ignore

one liverfor two mouths

death will notdo us part

iv.Iam small,the smallest by farsitting on a tall mans kneeto make my smallness smaller, more concentratedthe mans name is horacehis face is longbut he seems to like me.my lace shawlis two lace ladies gloves

stitched together.i rollmy own cigarettesand horace lightsthem eternallypatient.

his kneegets worse

every nightv.

Sledgehammernever drove a railroad spike

never broke through brickshas spent its whole working lifein my giants hands

swinging up, down,stop & look up, lean down.

sledgehammer hit this giant lever

make this bell ring

a e c


10/14

I

Crouched down here with the littliest birdsI watch them pick lentils from ashes:the good ones for the potthe bad ones for your cropI say it over and over, a prayer.Their tiny heads bob up, downlittle black beaks peck against the hard hearth stones, make a clinking sound.Why do they careif I go to the ball tonightand curtsy for the king?Maybe theyre just hungry.

II

My favorite blue ballhas rolled into the cagewhere they keep the wild man.His hair is a giant nest for sparrowshis beard is made of black wires.He squeezes my ball with his giant right handand stares at me through the rust caked bars.His eyes are the color of a dead fishs bellyand never blink.

III

For my dear stepdaughterI ransack my labratory.Red apple, be my canvas:I begin with this dead babys tooth,toss in a fistful of mummy dust, drop of mercury,the tailfeather from my good crow.Odds and ends from yellow and green pickling jars.I coat the apple with honey, because Im not all bad.Last I add a drop of my bloodto seal us togetherlike mother and daughter.

IV

When I pushed her into the ovenI thought shed smell like melting sugar,like the dripping walls of her house.No: a sickly old and foreign smellburning flesh and dirty cloth, mud and hair.We heard her toothless screams for a little whilefrom his cage, my brother licked his lips.

our gr mm snapsho s


11/14

Long legs in fishnet tightsunder feathers, under sequinssticky red lips exhale

in bluecigarettes twitching fingers, i watch the smoke go up

Wild colors are moving around me:gold beads in black gloves,

green skin suits and orange scarves,the underside of a pink tutu, a Martian canopy.

Black point shoes knocking at the floor,I thought the floor would break

four years oldclinging to my mothers handshe navigated the high school hallway,labyrinthine backstage,

with caution

I watched and watched color trails on tile walls,the rare light of red sequins

a blue gown brushed my face;long white nails crept down

into my line of sightto scratch a shining white knee.

Clouds of smoke hung high above,masked painted faces

I saw no facesblind faith to believe they were there

they were there, behind muted conversations;the fishnet tights had black pointy heels

for punctuationstamp curse stamp

overhead voices came, and went,bleeding downthrough silver tinsel, red feathers

tap shoes clacked out crucial wordsI strained to hear andpushed deeper into my mothers skirt.

On my back:butterfly wings

red, like my little red ballet slipperstiptoeing through the carnival,

the forest of mannequins in costumes

it took a long time

to find the other butterflies

ac s age


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