in which our bodies formed a crossroad, an x
it was not that I did not see it, but that I feared forgetting how
an angle, a spandrel
a letter written in invisible ink in the
between, a crossing
to a place tender
to a place of knives and roses, to aces
wild, where tree roots open
their own terrible leaves
underground, visible
where the dead are positioned at folding tables,
so that the scene appears lively
it is not a distraction it is an invitation
to pay attention. to write it down and remember
the number, impossible
or simply unknown
(self portrait in a clouded mirror
self portrait leaning against itself)
possibility, made
manifest.
let x be time, and how it indicates not decay
but forgetting, the desire to exist in spite of it
or because of it. ::dead insect preserved, pinned to a bed, in which it is opened
each an x, in themselves,
positioned, in sequence (you have felt this
before)
a pattern emerges, a process:
(is it that I am at home in my own loneliness, or that I am not yet
complete?) (that I could easily be torn in two) (that I wanted
to be rent asunder)
self birth: crossdress
man, I
was silk, indefinite
thing to feel
house next to the highway where a girl rides a horse in a circle, a round
barrel circle Scottish terrier runs in a circle at the horse’s heels what you want
is a girl with land what you want
is a girl with prospects it’s like panning
for gold out there its like pull
like orbit, gravity sent yards
down, shaved just a square of land, on
thighs and they thought this is america. this is my daughter
riding in a circle
my wife
her hands in biscuit dough
what they must feel
& what do I do with her how do I care
for a thing like this
how old were you when you first felt that soft spot at the back of your head
the spiral on the back of a baby head where the mind folds and unfolds flag, christ
peering out from the wheat fields the fact is
that wheat can grow all year collects frost crystals at the root do you touch
the fabric to yourself do you touch the curtain’s
edge or do you just look at yourself and think of your skeleton?
when were you
born into yourself—self-birthing in which
you are your own mother to yourself and would you treat yourself better or worse
if you were your own mother? it was not a nymph, but a mother I saw
you have seen in yourself
you have seen in the wheat
what you have seen
in the wheat sees you back
farmer, farmer, burning
dress at the window, at this
address at night a dress
by the highway where she emerged alive, purple
silk I never said I’d
do it full time never
tell anyone about it
but when I put it on I felt
more alive than dead drinking
all that light in in the upstairs
room I felt myself
break o p e n into a spiral into a root system
ice crystals on roots on fire
get dressed go out to the cows
when was the last time you
felt anything soft when was the last
time you felt anything that good
on top of a hill in winter in kansas with all these roots all this stem all these bodies beneath me like a horse I lay down in the field with my back to the field feeling good
Denise Jarrott is the author of the chapbook Nine Elegies (dancing girl press). Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in jubilat, Beecher’s Magazine, Zone 3, Grimoire, and elsewhere. She grew up in Iowa and currently lives in Brooklyn.
