They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’ s throats.
Dark thing,
make a myth of yourself:
all women turn into lilacs,
all men grow sick of their errant scent.
You could learn
to build a window, to change flesh
into isinglass, nothing
but a brittle river, a love of bone.
You could snap like a branch — No,
this way, he says, and the fence
releases the forest,
and every blue insect finds an inch of skin.
He loves low voices, diffidence
on the invented trail,
the stones you fuck him on. Yes
to sweat’ s souvenir, yes to his fist
It is my emotions that early me through Lambertville, New Jersey,
sheer feeling — and an obscure detour — that brings me to a coffee shop
called “This Is It” and a small New Jersey clapboard
with a charming fake sign announcing it to be
the first condemned building in the United States
and an old obese collie sitting on the cement steps
of the front porch begging forgiveness with his red eyes.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the cat that killed the rat
That ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the dog that worried the cat
That killed the rat that ate the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built.
This is the way we we lay the bricks,
To make the walls nice and thick.
This is the way we lay the bricks,
All day long.
This is the way we saw the wood,
Strong and good, strong and good.
This is the way we saw the wood,
All day long.
This is the way we hammer and nail,
Hammer and nail, hammer and nail.
This is the way we hammer and nail,
All day long.
This is the way we clean the glass,
Clean the glass, very fast.
This is the way we clean the glass,
All day long.
All day long!
Is unwritten, though it has lived in violence.
First the factory stood, quiet as an asylum.
Then the annihilating mallee with its red fists of blossoms
and the mountain ash creeping over it like a stain.
I have no proof, but I tell you
there were leadlight windows here once, barred.
They cast a little striped light on the women.
Now in scrub and yellow broom I stand on a history
braided and unbraided by stiff Irish wrists.
The rope and span and carded wool are unpicked
as are their faces and names.
This little piggy went to market.
This little piggy stayed at home.
This little piggy has roast beef,
This little piggy had none.
And this little piggy cried “Wee! Wee! Wee!” all the way home.
This old man, he played one,
He played knick knack on my thumb.
With a knick knack, paddy wack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played two,
He played knick knack on my shoe.
With a knick knack, paddy wack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
This old man, he played three,
He played knick knack on my knee.
With a knick knack, paddy wack,
Give a dog a bone,
This old man came rolling home.
Even if you didn’ t have green eyes (in the bathtub, blue).
Even if you didn’ t have a lovely singing voice,
or care for Alexandrine champagne
some slow Saturday evenings to sing it through,
it pleases me, your lips close to my ear,
or when you’ re a big girl, and I’ m a big girl too.
The room I entered was a dream of this room.
Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.
The oval portrait
of a dog was me at an early age.
Something shimmers, something is hushed up.
We had macaroni for lunch every day
except Sunday, when a small quail was induced
to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?
You are not even here.
