The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by A CLOSER LOOK: Jane Shore
Jane Shore is the author of six books of poems: Eye
Level, winner of the Juniper Prize (University of Massachusetts Press,
1977); The Minute Hand, winner of the Lamont Prize (University
of Massachusetts Press, 1987); Music Minus One, a finalist for the National
Book Critic Circle Award (Picador USA, 1996); Happy Family (Picador USA, 1999); A Yes-or-No
Answer (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2008), winner of the 2010 Poets'
Prize; and That Said, New and Selected
Poems (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2012). Her poems have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines, including The Norton Anthology, The New Yorker, Poetry, The New Republic, The Yale Review, Slate, and Ploughshares (where she has twice served as a guest poetry editor). She is a Professor of English at The George Washington University. See her profile on the Poetry Foundation's website: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/jane-shore.
When Ms. Shore's volume of new and selected poems, That Said, was published in 2012, the poet Stanley Plumly responded as follows:
As a reviewer in Poetry magazine wrote, Shore writes poems that are "memorabilia; they cultivate the leisure and faceted pleasure of retrospection; they favor the miniature and the artifactual; they are tender toward kitsch."
And in a wonderful profile published in Ploughshares,
Lorrie Goldensohn observed:
Please see the entire profile here: About Jane Shore.
Jane Shore: A Selection of Poems
(all from That Said unless otherwise noted) Willow
It didn't weep the way a willow should. Planted all alone in the middle of the field by the bachelor who sold our house to us, shoulder height when our daughter was born, it grew eight feet a year until it blocked the view through the first-, then the second- story windows, its straggly canopy obstructing our sunrise and moonrise over Max Gray Road. I gave it the evil eye, hoping lightning would strike it, the way a bolt had split the butternut by the barn. And if leaf blight or crown gall or cankers didn't kill it, then I'd gladly pay someone to chop it down. My daughter said no, she loved that tree, and my husband agreed. One wet Sunday — the rainiest July since 1885— husband napping, daughter at a matinee in town—a wind shear barreled up the hill so loud I glanced up from my mystery the moment the willow leaned, bowed, and fell over flat on its back, roots and all, splayed on the ground like Gulliver. The house shook, just once. Later, when the sun came out, neighbors came to gawk; they chain-sawed thicker branches, wrapped chains around the trunk, their backhoe ripped out pieces of stump and root as if extracting a rotten tooth. I'm not sorry that tree is gone. No one ever sat under it for shade or contemplation. Yet spring after spring it reliably leafed out. It was always the last to lose its leaves in fall. It should have died a decade ago for all the grief I gave it, my dirty looks apparently the fuel on which it thrived. It must have done its weeping in private. But now I can see the slope of the hill. Did my wishful thinking cast a spell? I was the only one on earth who saw it fall.
Eau de Joy
I never opened the spare bottle of Joy through my fingers & down the drain in five
first published in The New Republic
Mirror/Mirror
You can't step twice into the same mirror, said Heraclitus, of the river's mirror.
A vessel holding water was the first mirror. A mirror held to nostrils, life's last mirror.
"Who is fairest?" the queen asked her mirror. A vampire has no reflection in a mirror.
Those backward letters without a mirror spell AMBULANCE in your rear-view mirror.
After Mom died, I covered all the mirrors with cloth, sat seven days without mirrors.
Staring at myself staring in my mirror, "I" became the "other" in the mirror.
Watching themselves making love in the mirror, they were aroused by the couple in the mirror.
The amputee stood at an angle that mirrored his phantom limb, now visible, mirrored.
In the Arnolfini Wedding Portrait's mirror, its painter's captive in that convex mirror.
A palindrome is another kind of mirror like the couplets in a ghazal's mirror.
Her beloved's eyes were her only mirror. Seven bad years when he broke a mirror.
I avoid, when I can, cruel three-way mirrors. "Mute surfaces,'' Borges called mirrors.
As Vanity combs her long hair in the mirror, an old bald skull awaits in the mirror.
Standing between two facing mirrors, I shrank down a long hallway of mirrors.
Which Jane are you? I asked my mirror. My mirror answered, Ask another mirror.
first published in The New Republic
This One
This One got to keep the Warhol. That One got an S.T.D.
This One left & kept on walking, making That One his Penelope.
Friends at first sided with This One. Later they jumped to That One's side.
Razor, pills, noose, & tailpipe for This—or That—One's suicide.
"Fifty-fifty's fair!" shouted That One. So This One cut their dog in half.
X marks the spot on That One's cheek where This One slapped his autograph.
That One drinks hot tears for breakfast; This One whiskey-on-the-rocks.
When This One got the seven-year itch, That One scratched her chicken pox.
Since This One left, That One's singing. How should they divide the pelf?
Now This One's alone & so is That One. Each One wants a couplet to himself.
first published in The New Yorker
Shit Soup*
Other mothers have their ''Everything Stew," ''Icebox Ragout," ''Kitchen-Sink Casserole." Mine had ''Shit Soup,'' a recipe she told me standing in her kitchen in New Jersey. ''Find a big pot, the biggest pot you have. Shit a quartered chicken into the pot. If you have an old carcass lying around, shit it in. Add three quarts of cold water and salt, and bring to a boil. Skim off the foam as it collects on the surface. Slice one large or two medium onions. Shit them in. Shit in some dill and parsley. Dried is okay but fresh tastes better. Cut into bit e-size pieces some carrots, a couple celery stalks. Shit them in. Those lousy-looking zucchini squash, withered wedges of cabbage, puckered peas. In other words, anything in the fridge. If you have fresh or frozen string beans, shit them in. Shit in a few potatoes. Peel the skin, dig out the eyes, cut off the bad parts and shit them in anyway, they're filled with vitamins and minerals. Friday's leftovers, oh, what the hell. Shit them in, shit in twelve black peppercorns. Want to know my secret ingredient?
What's under that aluminum foil? Shit it in. A little mold won't kill you. My recipe? I don't measure. I just shit a little of this in, a little of that. Your Mama's Shit Soup. Enough for a week. With a pot of this you'll never go hungry." Shit in ''There wasn't time for me to go to the Shop Rite and buy steaks to broil for your father's and your dinner." Shit in ''I'd like to sell the store someday and move to Florida." Shit in the Recession, the Second World War, the Great Depression. Shit in ''There's no rest for the weary." Shit in her bunions, her itchy skin. Shit in ''Rich or poor, it's nice to have money." Shit in ''Marriage isn't made in heaven." Shit in the Republicans. Shit in her tumor. Shit in where it spread to her liver ''like grains of rice," the doctor said. Shit in her daughters at the cemetery crying over the hole when they lowered her in. Shit in one last handful of dirt. Cover the pot and reduce heat to low. Simmer on the lowest possible flame for two hours, or until vegetables are fork tender, meat falls off the bone.
*In Yiddish, shit-arein means ''to pour in."
Reprise
Rummaging through the old cassettes my father taped off the classical radio station, my daughter finds, among Mozart and Bach, catalogued and labeled in his elegant hand, Jane and Howard's Wedding: 1984. I didn't know my father taped that, too! Disappearing with the boom box, my daughter shuts the master bedroom's door. An hour later, I walk in on her gate-crashing our wedding, sprawling on our marriage bed, ear to the speaker. When she was younger, she used to insist she was there, at our wedding, and we've told her it's impossible, she wasn't born yet, that she was there in spirit. She's not convinced—hasn't she always been with us, even when she wasn't?
She laughs at the Wedding March while her dad and I shakily walk down the aisle under the rented yellow-and-white tent filling Mike and Gail's Walnut Ave. backyard. Eavesdropping on the prayers we repeat after the rabbi, phrase by Hebrew phrase, she claps when the rabbi pronounces us husband and wife and we kiss to applause, her future father stomps on the goblet wrapped in the caterer's cloth napkin, and glass shatters safely underfoot.
She rewinds the tape back to the beginning, to what she calls the "really funny part," back to before our murmuring guests sit down in the rented chairs on that sweltering June Sunday, 96 degrees, freesia wilting, family close to fainting, whipped cream on the cake about to turn, back to before we stand under the canopy, back to before the ceremony, back to when my father presses the Record button, clears his throat and says into the microphone: ''Testing, testing"—a voice I last heard years ago, a few days before he died.
Shocked, I hear my dead mother say, "George, are you sure the tape recorder's working?" And my father says, I'm sure." My mother says, "George, are you sure the batteries aren't dead?" And my father answers patiently at first, then wearily, "Essie, I'm sure." She asks him again, and he answers again, and here they are, arguing in my bedroom, in the house my mother never set foot in. My daughter's eyes shine with laughter; mine with tears. Although I'd give anything to have them back, even for a moment, I clamp my hands over my ears (just as I used to when I was growing up) and shut them out again.
The Russian Doll
after Elder Olson
Six inches tall, the Russian doll stands like a wooden bowling pin. The red babushka on her painted head melts into her shawl and scarlet peasant dress, and spreading over that, the creamy lacquer of her apron. A hairline crack fractures the equator of her copious belly, that when twisted and pulled apart, reveals a second doll inside, exactly like her, but smaller, with a blue babushka and matching dress. An identical crack circles her middle.
Did Faberge fashion a doll like her for a czar's daughter? Hers would be more elaborate, of course, and not a toy— emerald eyes, twenty-four-karat hair, and with filigreed petticoats like a chanterelle's gills blown inside out. An almost invisible fault line would undermine her waist, and a platinum button that springs her body open.
Now I have two dolls: mother and daughter. Inside the daughter, a third doll is waiting. She has the same face, the same figure, the same fault she can't seem to correct. Inside her solitary shell where her duplicate selves are breathing, she can't be sure whose heart is beating, whose ears are hearing her own heart beat.
Each doll breaks into a northern and a southern hemisphere. I line them up in descending order, careful to match each womb with the proper head—a clean split, for once, between the body and the mind. A fourth head rises over the rim of the third doll's waist, an egg cup in which her descendants grow in concentric circles.
Until last, at last, the two littlest dolls, too wobbly to stand upright, are cradled in her cavity as if waiting to be born. Like two dried beans, they rattle inside her, twin faces painted in cruder detail, bearing the family resemblance and the same unmistakable design.
The line of succession stops here. I can pluck them from her belly like a surgeon, thus making the choice between fullness and emptiness; the way our planet itself is rooted in repetitions, formal reductions, the whole and its fractions. Generations of women emptying themselves like one-celled animals; each reproducing, apparently, without a mate.
I thought the first, the largest, doll contained nothing but herself, but I was wrong. I assumed that she was young because I could not read her face. Is she the oldest in this matriarchy— holding within her hollow each daughter's daughter? Or the youngest—
carrying the embryo of the old woman she will become? Is she an onion all the way through? Maybe, like memory shedding its skin, she remembers all the way back to when
her body broke open for the first time, to the child of twelve who fits inside her still; who has yet to discover that self, always hidden, who grows and shrinks, who multiplies and divides.
Dummy
He lolled on my twin bed waiting for me to get home from Girl Scouts or ballet, but I couldn't really play with him the way I'd played with my other dolls— buttoning their dresses, buckling their shoes, brushing and braiding their long, rooted curls. He had the one crummy green gabardine suit. His ketchup-colored hair was painted on. And while my baby dolls could drink from a bottle, cry real tears, blow bubbles, and pee when I squeezed their tummies, my dummy didn't have the plumbing.
The water bottles I'd jam in his mouth scuffed his lipstick, mildewed his stuffing. Prying his smile apart, I'd run my finger along the seven milk teeth lining his jaw. But look inside his head. Completely empty! No tongue, no tonsils, no brain. No wonder he had to wear his own name on a label sewn above his jacket pocket to remind himself that he was Jerry Mahoney and his straight man an eleven-year-old girl who jerked the dirty pull string at the back of his neck, making his jaw drop open,
his chin clack like the Nutcracker's. That lazy good-for-nothing! I had to put words in his mouth. His legs hung limp, his arms flopped at his sides. He couldn't wink or blink or quit staring to the left; brown eyes painted open, perpetually surprised at what he'd blurt out next: "Grandma Fanny has a big fat fanny! Uncle Fred should lose that lousy toupee! Aunt Shirley dresses like a goddamn tramp! That son of hers, Moe, a moron!"— what they said behind each other's backs!
He did a slow one-eighty of my bedroom. "How the hell did I wind up in this joint?"— that low, unnatural voice straining through my own locked teeth. "Good evening, ladies," he leered at the dolls propped on the shelf, cocking his head to see their underpants. How old was that wiseacre supposed to be?— thirteen? thirty? my father's age?—the little man sitting on my lap, telling dirty jokes until his pull string snapped, a fraying ganglion lost inside his neck beyond the tweezers' reach, a string of words unraveling down his throat.
After that, we practiced our act in the dark where I couldn't see his imperfections. We'd talk, long after the others were asleep: I'd move my lips, lower my voice an octave; and it almost sounded like a conversation between a husband and a wife. I tweaked his bow tie, smoothed his satin dickie, rapped on his skull. Knock, knock. "Who's there? " just like in the old days when he was in mint condition, a smart aleck; before he became slack-jawed, dumb—a dummy forever—and I grew up, went solo, learned to speak for myself.
A Luna Moth
for Elizabeth Bishop
For six days and nights a luna moth, pale green, pinned herself to the sliding screen— a prize specimen in a lepidopterist's dream.
Tuesday's wind knocked her off the deck. She tacked herself back up again. During Wednesday's rain she disappeared and reappeared on Thursday to meditate and sun herself, recharging her dreams from dawn to dusk, and all night draining the current from the deck's electric lantern.
A kimono just wider than my hand, her two pairs of flattened wings were pale gray-green panels of the sheerest crêpe de Chine. Embroidered on each sleeve, a drowsing eye appeared to watch the pair of eyes on the wings below quite wide awake. But they're all fake. Nature's trompe l'oeil gives the luna eyes of a creature twice her size.
The head was covered with snow-white fur. Once, I got so close it rippled when I breathed on her. She held herself so still, she looked dead. I stroked the hem of her long, sweeping tail; her wings dosed my fingers with a green-gold dust. I touched her feathery antennae. She twitched and calmly reattached herself a quarter inch west, tuning into the valley miles away a moment-by-moment weather report broadcast by a compatriot, catching the scent of a purely sexual call; hearing sounds I never hear, having the more primitive ear.
Serene in the middle of the screen, she ruled the grid of her domain oblivious to her collected kin— the homely brown varieties of moth tranced-out and immobile, or madly fanning their paper wings, bashing their brains out on the bulb. Surrounded by her dull-witted cousins, she is herself a sort of bulb, and Beauty is a kind of brilliance, burning self-absorbed, giving little, indifferent as a reflecting moon.
Clinging to the screen despite my comings and goings, she never seemed to mind the ride. At night, when I slid the glass door shut, I liked to think I introduced her to her perfect match hatched from an illusion— like something out of the Brothers Grimm— who, mirroring her dreamy stillness, pining for a long-lost twin, regarded her exactly as she regarded him.
This morning, a weekend guest sunbathing on the deck, sun-blind, thought the wind had blown a five-dollar bill against the screen. He grabbed the luna, gasped, and flung her to the ground. She lay a long moment in the grass, then fluttered slowly to the edge of the woods where, sometimes at dawn, deer nibble the wild raspberry bushes.
Meat
The year I had the affair with X, he lived downtown on Gansevoort Street in a sublet apartment over a warehouse. It was considered a chic place to live. He was wavering over whether to divorce his wife, and I'd fly down every other week to help him decide. Most nights, we'd drop in for cocktails on the Upper East Side and hobnob with his journalist friends, then taxi down to SoHo for an opening and eat late dinner in restaurants whose diners wore leather and basic black. We'd come home at four in the morning, just as it was starting to get light and huge refrigerator trucks were backing up to the loading docks and delivering every kind of fresh and frozen meat. Through locked window grates I could see them carrying stiff carcasses, dripping crates of iced chickens. We'd try to sleep through the racket of engines and men shouting and heavy doors being slammed. By three in the afternoon the street would be completely deserted, locked up tight; at twilight they'd start their rounds again. The street always smelled of meat. The smell drifted past the gay bars and parked motorcycles; it smelled like meat all the way to the Hudson. And though they hosed it down as best they could, it still smelled as though a massacre had occurred earlier that day, day after day. We saw odd things in the gutter—lengths of chain, torn undershirts, a single shoe, and sometimes even pieces of flesh—human or animal, you couldn't tell—and blood puddling around the cobbles and broken curbstones.
to drop us off at the door so that no one could follow and rob us. We'd climb to our love nest and drape a sheet over the bedroom window— the barred window to the fire escape— which faced across the airshaft the window of a warehouse—empty, we assumed, because we'd never seen lights on behind the cracked and painted panes. In the morning, we'd sleep late, we'd take the sheet down and walk around the apartment naked, and eat breakfast in bed, and read, and get back to our great reunions . . . . One Sunday, we felt something creepy— a shadow, a flicker—move behind a corner of broken glass. And we never knew they were, or how many, or for how many months they had been watching us, the spectacle we'd become. Because that's what we were to them— two animals in a cage fucking: arms and backs and muscle and flanks and sinew and gristle.
A Yes-or-No Answer
Have you read The Story of O? Will Buffalo sink under all that snow? Do you double-dip your Oreo? Please answer the question yes or no.
The surgery—was it touch-and-go? Does a corpse's hair continue to grow? Remember when we were simpatico? Answer my question: yes or no.
Do you want another cup of joe? If I touch you, is it apropos? Are you certain that you're hetero? Is your answer yes or no?
Did you lie to me like Pinocchio? Was forbidden fruit the cause of woe? Did you ever sleep with that so-and-so? Just answer the question: yes or no.
Did you nail her under the mistletoe? Will you spare me the details, blow by blow? Did she sing sweeter than a vireo? I need an answer. Yes or no?
Are we still a dog-and-pony show? Shall we change partners and do-si-do? Are you planning on the old heave-ho? Check an answer: Yes __ No __
Was something blue in my trousseau? Do you take this man, this woman? Oh, but that was very long ago. Did we say yes? Did we say no?
For better or for worse? Ergo, shall we play it over, in slow mo? Do you love me? Do you know? Maybe yes. Maybe no.
The Streak
Because she wanted it so much, because she'd campaigned all spring and half the summer, because she was twelve and was old enough, because she would be responsible and pay for it herself, because it was her mantra, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, because she would do it even if we said no—
her father and I argued until we finally said okay, just a little one in the front and don't ask for any more, and, also, no double pierces in the future, is that a deal?
She couldn't wait, we drove straight to town, not to our regular beauty parlor, but the freaky one half halfway house, half community center— where they showed her the sample card of swatches, each silky hank a flame-tipped paintbrush dipped in dye.
I said no to Deadly Nightshade. No to Purple Haze. No to Atomic Turquoise. To Green Envy. To Electric Lava that glows neon orange under black light. No to Fuchsia Shock. To Black-and-Blue. To Pomegranate Punk. I vetoed Virgin Snow. And so she pulled a five out of her wallet, plus the tax, and chose the bottle of dye she carried carefully all the car ride home, like a little glass vial of blood drawn warm from her arm.
Oh she was hurrying me! Darting up the stairs, double-locking the bathroom door, opening it an hour later, sidling up to me, saying, "Well?" For a second, I thought that she'd somehow gashed her scalp. But it was only her streak,Vampire Red.
Later, brushing my teeth, I saw her mess— the splotches where dye splashed and stained the porcelain, and in the waste bin, Kleenex wadded up like bloodied sanitary napkins. I saw my girl—Persephone carried off to Hell, who left behind a mash of petals on the trampled soil.
Possession
Nesting in my nest, she slept on my side of the double bed, stacked the book—my books she was reading on my nightstand. In the closet, her dresses pressed against my husband's pants. These I boxed up for her mother, with the baby's toys. I tossed her blue toothbrush and her tortoiseshell comb in the trash.
Police took away a rug. My two best knives.
But the kitchen still smells of her spices — her cinnamon, curry, cloves. The house an aromatic maze of incense and sachet. Almost every day now something of hers turns up. The way La Brea tar pits keep disgorging ancient bones squeezing them through the oily black muscles of earth to the surface.
A yoga mat. I don't need it. I already have my own. Prayer beads. A strapless bra. A gold ring. It's pretty. It fits my pinkie.
I wash my face with her special soap, a cool oval of white clay, one thick black hair still glued to it. And is it wrong to brew her herbal teas, try her aromatherapies, her homeopathic cures, the Rescue Remedy she'd told me really worked? The amber bottle's full. Why waste it? So I deposit four bitter drops on my own tongue.
first published in The New Yorker
Fortunes Pantoum
You will go on a long journey You will have a happy and healthy life You will recover valuables thought lost You will marry and have many children
You will have a happy and healthy life Your sweetheart will always be faithful You will marry and have many children You will have many friends when you need them
Your sweetheart will always be faithful Soon you will come into a large inheritance You will have many friends when you need them You will succeed in your line of work
Soon you will come into a large inheritance You will travel to many new places You will succeed in your line of work Be suspicious of well-meaning strangers
You will travel to many new places A message from a distance is soon to be received Be suspicious of well-meaning strangers Important news from an unexpected source!
A message from a distance is soon to be received You will meet a dark and handsome foreigner Important news from an unexpected source! Do not take unnecessary chances
You will meet a dark and handsome foreigner You have a fear of visiting high places Do not take unnecessary chances Your misunderstanding will be cleared up in time
You have a fear of visiting high places Grasp at the shadow and lose the substance Your misunderstanding will be cleared up in time Sometimes you worry too much about death
Grasp at the shadow and lose the substance You will recover valuables thought lost Sometimes you worry too much about death You will go on a long journey
Blue Address Book
Like the other useless things I can't bear to get rid of—her nylon nightgowns,
his gold-plated cufflinks, his wooden shoetrees, in a size no one I know can use—
I'm stuck with their blue pleather address book, its twenty-six chapters printed in ballpoint pen,
X'd out, penciled in, and after she passed away, amended in his hand, recording, as in a family
Bible, those generations born, married, and since relocated to their graves: Abramowitz to Zimmerman.
Great-uncles, aunts, cousins once removed, whose cheeks I kissed, whose food I ate,
are in this book still alive, immortal, each name accompanied by a face:
Fogel (Rose and Murray), 474 13th St., Brooklyn, moved to a condo in Boca Raton; Stein
(Minnie, sister of Rose), left her Jerome Ave. walk-up for the Yonkers Jewish Nursing Home.
The baby-blue cover has a patina of grease, the pages steeped in cigarette smoke
from years spent in my parents' junk drawer. Though scattered in different graveyards,
here they're all accounted for. Their souls disperse, dust motes in the air
that I inhale.
Gelato
When Caravaggio's Saint Thomas pokes his index finger past the first knuckle, into the living flesh of the conscious perfectly upright Jesus Christ, His bloodless wound like a mouth that has opened slightly to receive it, the vaginal folds of parting flesh close over the man's finger as if to suck,
that moment after Christ, flickering compassion, helps Thomas touch the wound, calmly guiding the right hand of His apostle with His own immortal left, into the warm cavity, body that died and returned to the world, bloodless and clean, inured to the operation at hand and not in any apparent pain—
to accidentally brush against His arm would have been enough, but to enter the miraculous flesh, casually, as if fishing around in one's pocket for a coin—
because it's in our natures to doubt, I'd doubt what I was seeing, too.
Drawing closer, Thomas widens his eyes as if to better absorb the injury, his three companions also strain forward, I do, too, and so would you, all our gazes straining toward the exquisite right nipple so beautifully painted I ache to touch or to kiss it, press my lips to the hairless chest of a god. His long hippie auburn hair falls in loose girlish corkscrew curls, the hairs of His sparse mustache straggle over His upper lip, face so close that Thomas must surely feel Christ's breath ruffling his brow.
The lecturer closes his notebook and we exit the auditorium. Conveyed smoothly on the moving sidewalk, as if on water, but not water, whooshed through the long, shimmery tunnel connecting the east and west wings of the National Gallery, my friend and I hurtle away from the past, that open wound, and toward the future—
the dark winter colors saturating my eyes suddenly blossom into the breezy pastels of Italy's gelato, milk sherbet quick-frozen and swirled into narrow ribbons of cold rainbow unbraided into separate chilled stainless steel tubs set under glass in a cooler case:
tiramisu, zabaglione, zuppa inglese, milky breasts whipped, rippled peach and mango, pistachio, vanilla flecked with brown dizzying splinters of bean, coffee, caramel, hazelnut, stracciatella, raspberry, orange, chocolate, chocolate mint; silken peaked nipple risen from the middle of the just barely opened undisturbed tub of lemon so pale it's almost white, scraped with a plastic doll's spoon; scooped and deposited on the tongue, then melting its soothing cooling balm.
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