Daigle. April 9

Lindsay Daigle. April 9, 2013

Transference

It’s like I told you— He was waist-down naked,

stepped out of his teal pick-up truck, didn't smile,

no, didn’t say anything. No, I didn’t say anything

either. I squeezed my friend's wrist, we walked faster,

laughed a little because we were twelve. I only looked

at it once.

*

I grew up picturing illness

like shag carpeting, like a foot

pushing its footness

through unknown fiber-prisons.

It was when mom opened windows

in the winter, hair wet

with perfume, chiding the stick-around birds.

The radiators squealed. The money was not under

the mattress. I made my mind up

about the back door, how I keep locking it,

why it’s standing open again.

*

She chose three words to say

based on each ice cube left

in the glass. Second word—

Sounds like

*

Backwards, muffled, sometimes followed

by throaty laughter. I heard best

during brandy in the living room,

when they talked of black eyes, of brothers,

of quilt patterns and darkness, phone calls

from missing daughters, back porch binocular-guilt,

crossword puzzle excuses, hospitals, jewelry,

loneliness, art. These woke me from dreams.

I couldn’t tell who was speaking.

I couldn’t tell if the spot under me

was pee or sweat.

*

It’s familiar to test the kitchen knives,

to shatter mirrors. It’s the same

to reach through barbed wire fences

to feel skin breaking open, blood

like fresh air, blood that misses

the ground-swells it came from.

(Transference, Spoon, 2010)