POEM
All Reason and No Rhyme
It was because of the bowl and
the spoon, hidden, so that no one else
could use them, because he refused to
take part in the risk of domestic
commerce, with its investment of wax
and polish, the sudden loss when the milk
slipped from the hand to the kitchen
floor, the fluctuation of dust
and fingerprints, the excess of rind,
eggshells, and coffee-grounds, which
would have led, despite their cost,
to profit at the breakfast table:
silverware gleaming sunlight,
plates warmed in the oven, tall
glasses filled with the fragrance of
of oranges. We could have
feasted upon those mutual returns.
It was because he made me stand
on one foot, biting the corner
of my lip, rubbing my hair
between a thumb and finger, I spoke
and then hesitated; I began again.
Words fell down, the force of gravity
stronger than hope. Pebbles lifted
my heart gradually, so that
when it finally brimmed the edge,
I could no longer tell if it was love
or hate—only that the bitterness
was more than I could swallow.
For this reason, I could never be
part of him, could not bear
to say the words “my husband”
or tell what he did for a living,
who he worked for, where I met him.
Walking, I never wanted to say
“Let us go then, you and I,”
as I did with other men
or with my daughters.
His step was not mine;
I could not, would not,
match it, and mine
was never a possible pace,
so erratic and wandering
it seemed to him.
When we talked, I used words
that did not fit my mouth,
words so hard I could only
gnaw at their edges, words so small
I could not taste them.
I did not desire to be edified;
I did not love simplicity
as he said he did. It was because
I could not sit, with my hands
folded in my lap, head bowed,
listening to a church-front voice.
I could not swallow my tongue,
could not weed out thoughts
like nettles in the grainy field of faith.
It could have been that I
was born under a bad star,
lacking the emotional equivalent
of a sturdy compass. So I,
defective and deflecting his gaze,
found my heart’s ease in a tangle
of roads and telephone wire.
Or it could have been atomic
mushrooms opening over my crib,
could have been voices radio-waving
through the air, old photographs
scattered everywhere, reflections
on an empty screen. It could have been
all of these, the whole world
breaking down, faltering to a halt.
“All Reason and No Rhyme” from Coming Back to the Body by Joyce Sutphen. © 2000 by Joyce Sutphen. Used by permission of Joyce Sutphen and the publisher, Holy Cow! Press.
Source: Coming Back to the Body (Holy Cow! Press, 2000)
