Anger
When I say I have a face of anger
When I say I have an anger face
this specifically female problem
clarifies the self-gaze
and functions like a mirror
held up by a fledgling boy
humiliating problems
draw humiliating answers
mix the wine in a krater
with honey, spice or water
odd numbered days are easier to survive
the odd-faced coin rolls slower
till it finally falls over
into some flaw in the floor
and is gone into the ether
can I imagine a frictionless space
shower of sugar
cold as it is hot
where I'm fastening my custom Cousteau-mask
on to my linen suit
and readying for my spacewalk
to be assassinated by the plot
what's my line chopt
like a heroic bob
on the cutting room floor
eject me now into the Polaroid darkness
I'm ready to go
the doors won't open/close
there's a leak in the suit/tank/hose
my learning is stuffed up in mine helmet
mine Internet
has a crack in it
when I pose on air I take a step forward
a smile cracks my face
just like on an attic vase
this is to indicate I am opposite a horizon
and gazing upon it:
the future
like when the hairdresser undoes the foil to watch the color lift
from black shafts, and the yellow odor drapes the room
and makes every curler, every curled-lip lift
the future
maybe she's born with it
the kosmos is littered with Ancient Greeks
how they imagined things
stepping in and out of the bathtub
trying to understand it
looking around for a lever
trying to stand outside of it
filling their mouths with rock
because it's easier
than finding an honest person
like our toddler cries because he wants two things
and only has one mouth
I hit snooze
and pull the lips of the iris close
stop up the conch shell
whatever tomb's willing to house me
I seal myself up in it
still, bad news litters the loom
when the dog kills a housemouse bloodlessly
it curls up so decoratively
I can barely discern it
from the pattern in the rug
now everything flicks like the tail of the mouse
in the corner of my eye
and my crooked part
which one morning went pale with shock
is now black and greasy again
like the place where two seas meet
Greek guards push migrants back onto the sea
having first disabled their motors
leave them there to drift or drown
the Lady of Chalott glances at the dumb world in her mirror
and then decides to drown in it
the brass rooster tucked
by the shoulder of the toddler
in its grave beneath the carpark
you brought it up
now put it back
with your betty page bangs and rumpled collar
with your chignons or updos that snare and break the necks of men
toss the driver from the cart
reinstall the driver
throw your baby in the pot
and take him out again
with a prosthetic shoulder
that no longer does that seizing thing
that freekd you out
and ruined your good looks and your good luck
what you would like to have in your mouth
is gone
along
with the word for it
snap your jaws back
light a fire
boil your brain with your rage
your skull for a krater
the gods those sick mothers
pushed the mortals onto the face of the sea
after first disabling the motors
left them to drift and die
in a bowl burnt blue burnt black
and the gods aren't good enough
for the offerings we have made to them
take back every one
Joyelle McSweeney is the author, most recently, of Toxicon and Arachne (Nightboat, 2020). A co-founder of Action Books, she works at Notre Dame.
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