Millicent Borges Accardi
UNDER DIFFERENT CONDITIONS*
They say once you have it
it does not go away, like a thirst
for liquor, a child, intelligence,
an abusive hand, a talent with
words, blindness, poverty,
a green thumb, perfect pitch.
They say it changes form,
hiding around corners of the
bloodstream, inside the bones
of imagination, in the minds
of worry, between the lines
of every poem you read.
They say it is not possible
to shake; some fight back
for years, others – a matter
of months; its is worse
than watching meals cooked
while being forbidden
to enter the kitchen, stomach
growling, tongue lolling out
of mouth, focused on the odor
of food. Salvation, dishes,
spoons always just out of reach.
They say it changes who
you are, how family treats
you, what strangers say. Words
to avoid, books not to read,
gifts like saplings are to be dodged
as well as playful animals.
Promises are assumed to be left
open-ended, like women who
never finish what they say,
letting the ends of words float
in the air, hoping, counting
on the fact that those around
them will sooner or later fill
in the mornings for them or –
"Write it; you can say this. "
Breast cancer. People might stop
and watch rooftops as an unexplained
plume of black smoke rises and changes direction above us.
* * *
WHAT THE WATER GIVES ME
based on a painting by Frida Kahlo
At first it gives heat, burning red angels
on my ankles when the steam from the bath
rushes in. If I don't find something in him
to hate, soon, I will be hurt. Motion,
not heart, undertakes every marriage.
The same way long burning
cigarettes fracture jerry-built ashtrays,
my body now cracks. The way the heart
of a bread loaf amssses mold; red
around the rim, green in the center.
Jealousy, then pain. All I wanted
from him. Nothing he wanted to give.
Running scared, what looks like boredom
to him is how I heal myself: the nagging,
invisible gin, something I need, but cannot see,
something I see, but cannot need, stains
from tea bag left in porcelain overnight,
while I waited for his return. In the dark
one I dance all by myself. The outside
window view of a hooded palm tree
looks l just like a fist with a gypsy
bracelet engraved, "Penelope forever. "
How he makes me feel when he lets me
rub his neck before bed. Everywhere,
now, the bath water brews a thin mattress
for me to rest upon. My toes kick at the
drowsy skyscrapers in the tub; my arms extend
out for what I see: the women in turbans,
the men with eggshell eyes, the children
with their soft, miscarried faces.
Millicent Borges Accardi is the author of four poetry books: Injuring Eternity, Woman on
a Shaky Bridge, Practical Love Poems and Only More So. She is the recipient of fellowships
from the National Endowment for the Arts, Fulbright, Canto Mundo, and others.
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