Issue #16: Fall 2006

And I, mute among racks of English poets

By Heather Duff

And I, mute among racks of English poets
an infant’s hollow rage through five floors of books
enters my womb like a poisoned dart
screams hell to all bound knowledge
this reminds me of my sister, pregnant again . . .
I speak to my soul, be still
some crude self-hypnosis
empathetic nausea causes titles to blur;
there is no more sanctity in poetry
than in a twice pregnant sister
I lean on cold metal that freezes my temples
between “Suzanne takes you down”
and “The Hollow Men”
we are the hollow women
we are the stuffed women
bra cups full of straw
we scribble cryptic verse in our imaginations
no hand free to hold a pen
both hands, in tepid dishwater, pots on to boil
barrels full of baby wipes soaking in brine
poems that might have shaped themselves
like slack clothesline in a backyard
we birth metaphor sans shape
narrow volume without title
lucid poem without language
uterus full of mown hay
our hollow bodies, mangers for messianic hope
among crucifixions scheduled for dawn
we feed cattle, errant sheep, and all the children
hunger – the only literature, crying

Heather Duff, MFA ’86, is artistic director of the Vancouver Youth Theatre