Lucía M. Polis 30 years
the poetry of

Lucinda’s dear friend Duncan was well hid,
Shut in the wardrobe of his nuptial bower.
Encircled by gay kirtles, shifts, and slips,
Inhaled he silken scents for endless hours.
Lucinda was oft wont to him affright
By throwing wide the wardrobe doors with force,
At which sly Duncan always begged his plight—
He was but tallying the robes, of course!
Heartsick, one night Lucinda did lament,
She knew precisely how her friend was pressed,
For wardrobe dwellers claim no compliment
When clad in plain dress, rich dress, or fine dress.
Lucinda bade him sit, avowed her trust,
"I, too, was born athwart a wayward yen—
But ’tis the same, dear heart, to be entruss’d,
Disguised—for twoscore year or twoscore-ten!"
Her counsel in his head resounded long—
"Thou quit’st the wardrobe first, then find’st thy form."

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, but
today I don’t care for veal tennis.

I got a haircut that cheered me up.
I ate well, made many pleasantries.


Later, a massage of tired thews.
Later, a drive to the clothing shops.

Later, I send to a friend a joke
on the flaws in this German loaner.

Later, I plan to make one more stop:
A walk by the water with Prufrock . . .


            when I see her sign—
                                          something clever

            about downpayments on winter boots
            when a gust of wind

                                          tears it out of her hands
            her sign falls falls down, but she does not stir



and I just you know I don’t know what to do you know and so I park you know nearby you know and I go over you know and I ask you know If I can get her some food you know ’cause there’s a pub nearby



I park behind White Sails, go over
patiently waiting to go across
the forbidding grid of city streets.


         —Hi there. Would you like to go get some food?
            We could go to White Sails . . .

         —I’m a vegetarian.
         —Oh. I’m really not sure. What if I got you
            something from Thrifty’s?

         —Activia Yogurt. Anything Red.
         —Anything else?

         —No. Just the yogurt. Maybe it’ll help
            settle my stomach.
         —OK. I’ll be back.


And I run. (There are no motions here
without transgressing traffic, without
a righteous hit from a turning car.)



and I just you know I don’t know what to do you know and so I ask AI you know I ask AI what to get you know and AI says you know you could get bananas you know and water you know and gra­no­la bars you know and I get in the car you know and I drive



And I turn. Amber’s reading her book
by dim lights. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s
and it’s so cold tonight and I still
do not care for veal tennis.


         —Hi there. Do you have any
            disposable spoons?
         —Check in the deli.

         —Hi there. Do you have any
            disposable spoons?
         —Over there, by the exit.

         —Hi there. Just these things.
            Do you have any sturdy bags?
         —Yes.
         —Thank you.


And I return. But I don’t seem odd
to the drivers—not ’til manœuvres
to cross to where Amber’s holding court
will they note our small drama.



and I put down the bag you know and I explain what they had in stock you know and I say I got the yogurt you know and these individually wrapped spoons you know and I say I got you some other stuff you know you could maybe use you know if you want



         —Amber!
                                (she turns around)
            I’m back. I got you this yogurt.
            This is all that they had.

                                (I point in the bag)
            I also got some bananas, Kind bars,
            water, some napkins, these spoons.
            Is this cool?

                                (she looks at me)
         —Yes, it’s cool.

                                (beat)
         —I’m sorry.
         —I’m sorry, too.

                                (beat)
         —Well . . . I should make the run.



and I run you know before the arcing onslaught you know al­though I think you know what would they do you know if I just stopped you know right here you know in the middle of road you know and I cross the grid of streets you know back to the car you know and I weep you know and I think about An­der­sen’s “Little Match Girl” you know and I want to you know give Amber my coat you know to give her my gloves you know give her everything you know that I have you know but I know you know this won’t fix you know anything you know as I weep you know in the expensive you know Ger­man loaner car you know as I drive back you know to the house you know I think back you know to ’96 you know when we’d line up you know at the food bank you know or when neighbours you know with good hearts you know would give things you know but then caution you you know this isn’t charity you know just so we’re clear you know and I don’t go you know on my walk you know in the park you know I stand up Prufrock you know I don’t go you know where the people are you know I just get back home you know and I park the car you know here the rabbits are you know busy mowing lawn you know and I walk out your know into the grass you know and I look up you know at the stars you know and I hear the kind wolf you know over the tracks you know howl in pain you know how she howls and howls you know—but the gift?



But the gift was already given away.
It was boat and paid in furl.

In Raskol’nikov’s first dream
he goes to his little brother’s grave.
He crosses himself, kneels before it,
kisses it.

              Holding his father’s hand
he passes by the kabák,
where they're all drunk, singing.
There, hitched to the heavy cart,

stands a gaunt nag, one score years
of age. They laugh at her, shout “Lash ’er!”
as Mikolka calls up one more lout
to her back.


                  “In the head! In the eyes!”—
they sing out, beat, whip her hard.
John Yossarian runs to her. He
won’t heed father, the elders.

John, he can only hold her.
Kissing her eyes, her muzzle, bloodied.
Unreal city! What’s left to him
but to wander the Seven Hills

and watch the district’s iniquities,
its wanton frailties, its
lies and filth. As he stumbles
on Italian cobbles,


Alan Œdipuses / Lears
six steeds just because Dick can’t
make it with Jane (Judy? Joan?).
(God gives a lascivious moan.)

Robert Ross tries to open
the barn; Robert Ross tries to
keep them from harm; Robert Ross
can’t save the horses, and burns.

Evening sky creeps over town
like plague overripe.

They ride in the night with the top put down;
Their songs and their shouts roll through the town.
They go up to girls (or boys) standing solo
And dip them and kiss them and take ’em to go.

Where they head, no mortal can ever follow.
They will find you empty but leave you whole.
And one thing is certain from death until birth:
These maidens’ names are their strength and their worth.

The townsfolk hush—not a soul then speaks
’Til clears the exhaust, ’til horizons straighten.
And so they ride on in a haze of blue smoke—
The beautiful, bold Brazen Maidens.

You’d think these were words from Sex Ed.:
      declension (n.)—unclenching, bending over
& conjugation (n.)—penetrating, entering;
                                       but no, apparently.

Instead, it is revealed to us that the former
is simply the variation of the form
of a word
              according to case, number, gender.
                                              (How boring.)


Consider the Rùsskoe slòvo for body:
                                              (It isn’t bawdy.)
It’s tèlo. And so,
                        about the body—o tèle,
                        to the body—k tèlu,
                        by using the body—tèlom;
         and so on—

It’s not quite your telos, my love,
but sometimes it gets you close.

I needed to get some things for the bathroom
so I drove to Rona.


I don’t have the assured expertise of man or lesbian.
I just happen to know where cohabitate
the silicone, spackle, and 150-grit sandpaper.

I hunt down the extension cord.

At the checkouts, I move like the Underground Man—
(though, I assure you, I have not now or ever
been a man or a Communist).

So:
     No membership. On MasterCard.

In the parking lot, before I keep going, I bicker a little
with my AI assistant.
                              I know I work too much, God dammit!
I just don’t know how to relax, OK??


When I get to Mid-Island Liquor, I go autopilot.

So:
     I recite my Co-Op numbers to Paul
who seems so much older now
who has sold me so much French wine, before.

Paul winces at the screen—
     LOO-kah? he painfully pronounces.
     loo-CHEE-uh—I correct him.
     loo-CHEE-uh . . . he repeats to himself, dazed.

No name that I've had has worked for the locals.


I decide to visit Chapters. They still sell books there
but just barely. It isn’t a nice place.
It’s no supermarket in California.

By the poetry shelves, I open poetry after poetry
My head hurts. I want to vomit. But instead
I get a book I’ve heard about. I’ll regret reading it.

In the checkout line, I practice.

     L.: “Hi, how are you?”
     Cashier: “Good. And you?”
     L.: “I feel mentally ill here. Soul-sick.
           Disappointed with everyone. Everything.”

I line up in the little trap-maze.
I am called to the pulpit.

So:
     Hi, how are you?
     . . .
     Just this, please.
     Here’s my membership.
     On MasterCard.
     Please. Thank you.

This is not a poem about sawing two feet off
    a rotten beam.

This is not a poem about making notches on
    all four sides and smelling
    that sweet-scented stuff
    fall to earth in gauze.


This is not a poem about shivering in rain.
This is not a poem about
                        adjusting your arm
                   this way or that
                        and sawing
                   the beam, hard—

                   the beam that you thought
had supported everything or maybe just
this, here;
                   the beam that you believed
would be impossible to saw through
the beam that once felt so solid

                   but   then
                   crum
                   bled
                   to shivers
when all you wanted to do
was clear the moss.


This is not a poem about saving the stump
to burn in a fire,
                        soon.

This is not a poem about starting
    or keeping a flame
    or weeping for you.


This is not a poem about what you could
or could not be (we
    can can
                only as much
    as we can ken).
            And you know everything.
            And they know everything.
      So why then?


This is not a poem about sitting in a mudroom
on a broken chair,
nearly nude, not
writing
           a poem or not
writing a poem for you.