She, Them, His
How had the first meeting gone so badly? We had wanted this.
We arranged it over months, down to the forks and stockings.
I spoke of my past and the thorny lessons, the pills I took
And refused, the straining of my arms to measure her.
It must’ve worked too well. The explanation is that we folded
Together like old clothes, seam to zipper. It’s intolerable, lying
On top of her, or her on me, the loss of vision all hers,
The loss of movement all mine, and here we are,
Some kind of crooked ghost-smile, a laugh
And a long tendentious premise, bullet points,
Stained like towels, torn like sheets, scrubbed off like soap.
It’s what women must come to. We throb in a heap.
≠
Keep it simple or she’ll hate you. Keep it simple or she’ll
Hurt you. Keep it simple or she’ll pay her friends to gang up
All over you. They tear your clothes off from the neck down
To make you understand they’re what there is now. Simple silent.
Simple silent says: simple weapon, rough rock in warm pool.
Two of them, one of you, keep it simple or you’re screwed.
They also stand before flowers without directing seeds to soil.
They also forget what they said. They also forget your name.
≠
When I speak, I do so as a woman. Speaking as a woman, I say,
And then I go on too long. I might talk about men
Or I might say I’m proud of what we chose,
Whoever I mean by “we,” whatever I mean by “choice.”
But when you speak of me, you see double. I might as well be twins,
Two eyes, two legs, two big ideas, you know the rest. Your noose
Tickles my neck. Verbs, moving,
Like hedge clippers or bandages or calculators or winches,
I mean tools in the garage. They’re useful, like me,
And when they get rusty at the hands of the lazy gardener
Just order more. When I own my own clippers,
That’s how I handle them, a history of clippers,
Like a man’s tools, in a man’s shed, in a man’s big box.
I say keep it simple, stupid, come here
Where I can lay my smooch on you, so you know it means
I could pucker up and remove the marrow
From your eye bone and your thigh bone and your die bone,
And if you died, that would be simple enough.
The Usual Explanation
One solid job to do, one easy piece of work,
and you can’t manage. You’re a plane ripping
out the last moments of sky on one sore
engine. Your voice creaks like hinges,
your hand shakes on the rusted knob.
Slam the door and you continue to knock.
The chimes of shame ring for you. They peal
above the city where you push your cart
laden with the ash of hope no one can see
but you as you rub it between your palms.
All anyone wants of you is nothing.
But you push, you make your face ugly
with hard desire, longing to marry
above you, into the family that owns
the land, paying its workers in dull bread.
•
Honestly, you should’ve worn better clothes.
Now when we look at you our eyes count
the threads in the fabric and come up short.
So few they are like the puzzle of you,
who will not go away, who will not fit
your body in the slot, twisting to click
the tumblers. There was never enough
of you to fly where you attempted.
There is the vast dry earth, coughing
its crooked cancers, where the gelatin drops
of your bleeding, your ceaseless feeding,
soak in fast, and nothing grows.
When we see you marching along
with your voice tuned to the heavens,
you sing your best song into silence.
Yes Men
they were yes men
seeking yes men
good men
speaking the good word
to men of few words
men of hands to shake
with a firm grip
they had an image
they meant to uphold
they were tall men
used to standing up
for the same old
nodding plodding men
they were virtuous men
so their wives said
who wore the back half
of the mule suit
to the parties
where the nose count
came up missing
all the no men
and the woe men
they were trouble
for the yes men
who caught them talking
who caught them laughing
at the yes men
in their black clothes
not like black crows
more like starlings
all the same men
not so smart men
don’t ask questions
they can’t answer
they say their pay grade
is too high to know
they refer you
to the secretary
they return to
deliberations
with their best friends
the other yes men
and yes girls
can’t be raped girls
don’t resist girls
just say yes girls
just smile pretty
when he tells you
you’re his favorite
little yes girl
he’s a yes man needing yesses
for his blesses
he’s a church man
searching for peace man
in his tall clothes
with his shovel
digging your grave
chiding gently
until he thinks he sees
you defying
his same old same old
his sternest judgments
yes men say yes to
men of few words
only one word
his hand’s extended
it’s up to you now
to reject it
but it’s a sin to him
in his yes mind
and his yes team
gets up from their chairs
in the gallery
and come toward you
with their parchment
and their ballpoint pens
just sign here ma’am
just say yes sir
to what we ask you
we promise to go easy
and you want to
have it easy it’s tempting
to take it easy
and then you turn
and see behind you
a line of no men
some of them woe men
it’s an omen
not to give in
Fillet
Corrections, palpable as plums.
They’re ready for me to slice into,
but my knife is not yet sharp so
I wait. Behind us stands—shifts—
the idea of resolution,
tall in a slate wet trench.
That’s what it will look like if I
lift the blade to the error at
the (right) necessary angle.
You know the speed of the skill,
to let up the pressure—worse
than breaking through egg yolk, say,
tomato’s closer, and wrong
throws seeds in a spray. So there’s that.
About the Author:
Lisa Lewis has published six books of poetry, most recently Taxonomy of the Missing (The Word Works, 2018), The Body Double (Georgetown Review Press, 2016), and a chapbook titled The Borrowing Days (Emrys Press, 2021). Her recent work appears or is forthcoming in Crazyhorse, Gulf Coast, Agni Online, Interim, Posit, Diode, Florida Review, and elsewhere. She directs the creative writing program at Oklahoma State University and serves as editor of the Cimarron Review.
Image by Joyce McCown/ Unsplash
Isele Magazine 