Category: Art

I decide to name my body. Jane. Jean. Janet. I’ve never liked names that begin with that uncertain sound, wobbling between consonant options like a bowling pin on the fritz. But I need to embrace a thing I have never cared for. As a kid I loved the game of telephone, one mishearing after another, the transformation, the delight at the end when the secret of the final whisperer was unveiled. Incense, insect, instant. Drench, trench, wrenched. Language, languish, anguish. We played at the margins of the senses, pretended loss where there was none, made the privilege of hearing into a game. One erasure, another erasure. Janet—unfixed, unmoored, unwell—time to mobilize.

How many times I tried to record the Goldberg Variations
Once in Iceland another time in California
It was Mercury in retrograde I didn’t get the chords right
You see I wanted a different kind of music
One that felt like a foreign city or ice cracking
A prediction of snow and then the snow itself endless
I wanted the blue stripes on your shirt the paleness of your underarm
The whiteout of a spring blizzard, everything unexpected
See I didn’t do well with indeterminacy—the blank sides of a dice
The piano chord I recognized but couldn’t name
A different kind of intimacy because I was tired of being unsurprised
Behind me in the photo the black river unraveled
Like a list of the dead children or the ones I never had
The field split open like a lip
I asked the river for answers but heard nothing
The path was obscured by another person’s tracks in the snow
Snow falling so slowly that no one noticed it.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There are ghosts in the room. 
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there 
They come out of the gloom, 
And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair 

    There’s a ghost of a Hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow, 
In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago. 

    But her ghost comes to-night 
With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes, 
And it stands in the light, 
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs. 

    There’s the ghost of a Joy, 
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much, 
And the hands that destroy
Clasped its close, and it died at the withering touch. 

    There’s the ghost of a Love,
Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest, 
But he towers above
All the others—this ghost; yet a ghost at the best, 

    I am weary, and fain
Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host 
Make my struggle in vain—
In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost