Clipped, braided locks; six red eyelashes, singed
At that moment in the Capitol: guns.
Behind the back aisle of the grocery store
Seated, he looked upwards to that painting
Horseshoes inverted, clattering cobble—
Factory girls wept saying, No matter what,
each of them survivors of his abuse.
Dr. Anderson, as Kept by the Investigator
Partial Video Surveillance:
Dear,
You were always steps ahead.
Your words echo, their timbre
a location. You stood close to me, that time
we were in the gallery, in the park, inside a crowd
your urgent breathless voice
in my ear, Oh, you said my name
you told me you were with a man
such excitement in your vibration
and I scoffed
did not pay attention—
see, you are my age so will know what to do.
Do you ever fret about, say, the neck?
Or under the eye, or lower down: hips, the backs of thighs, belly?
Or do you strut in confidence?
Sustenance is the gaze. You taught me that.
Years ago, you said, I need to have—
and without, I’m not
and again, I just dismissed you.
Oh, I understand now. That gaze, those moments
before touch, there is a kind of energy—
You will never see these pages.
I keep them here, in Rentalsman.
Online, I search for and cannot help
Panic, he won’t keep me here much longer and then—
Villagers say I am beating the odds.
I’m obsessed with surface
It is a territory.
Some days in the city, outside,
every woman is better than, is the one who will
for whom I’ll be, or am.
I refuse to count the number of times he looks at me.
Days when we return from the Commons, I allow myself to forget,
prisoner.
Dr. Anderson, Collaborator
Only the length of shadows to tell time
his voice softest when he is about to—
A small scar on the inside of his thumb
Guards shift their weight, metal clanging on stone
They cough, dry dust swirling under locked doors
sliding open to this room, the sound of our breath
Strawberry blonde, he says, his hands on my hair—
With swollen fingers, he traces congealed
the first letter of my name, whispered,
Call this your tattoo, his breath warm on my neck
of the brand he placed on my back, he says,
Just like the other girls.
Save, I am not.
As for me and my shame, I have no such
——distance from the fact that I told him.
Names and locations and yet,
what my body accepted my spirit
did not. Find me here in Rentalsman though
a kept woman.
Dr. Anderson Sings Herself to Sleep
How many miles to
How many roads to
How many years since
Oh, at night I’ve viewed the Inner-Net.
Search, click, names of names.
I will create my Obscura
Content and repeat
Page view, deeper, the number higher
Each search, something, someone, from the past—
Your face, your words, the things you made
Your life and its place
Oh, at night I’ve searched, name by name
Others you’ve known, I track them down
Action is mortification.
Lurker, and timid, last night a photograph.
You, standing with others. I found their names.
Could not hold in memory. Pencilled in
Clicked and clicked—
Today, your power haunts me
Assessment endless, an itemization of parts
Ratio of, contrast to
My flaws
And I know I will return
Drawn to image, defeated by image—
This place of no mercy.
Dr. Anderson: Testimony
Afternoon, month ending to blend
I read these notes left in an old oak box:
Un coup de dés
Jamais, jamais
Outside a brigade
chained, they dig trenches, singing.
I have seen them at the close of day
chance, hazard
lodged into the body’s softest
most secret places
Imagine, said the women held with me.
Imagine, I said, recanting
and knew a different set of rules. Approved and applied:
my lab bombed, my chalice dismantled, pieces—
My name is Abigail Ellen Anderson,
grandniece of my Aunty Agatha.
My parents perished in the year I was born.
Yes, it’s true.
Aunty Agatha once met her, that girl locksmith.
She said her name was Bramah.
The Last Dream of Dr. A.E. Anderson
that girl stood; feet encased
newspapers torn
abandoned, the lab where once
traced—
they would wake, dreams hollow
filled with other things
un/birthed, un/sought, nevertheless
longed for—
his beauty frightened me, she said.
And I’d forgotten: my own first name, stitched
inside lower left shoulder seam, I.D.
tagged, Dr. A.E. Anderson, mask torn:
Come away, Abigail Ellen, says Aunty Agatha:
—Courage, girl, for the way forward—
The Last Words of Dr. A.E. Anderson
and I was warned
afterward, the aftertime—
I entered that tunnel, those echoing footsteps—
tank turrets swivel left to right, take aim
Molotov! scream one-armed boys, their small bones
on the mountains, fire—in the Courtyard, dust.
Catastrophe is an earthquake of the soul
how the body stores pain, vein to arteries,
in the streets, masked youth,
those children of university professors
Pacifica to Santiago, all along our coast
all my warnings, after, ignored:
distance a space between two lovers.
They told me I’d succumb and indeed, I gave over—
bereft I said and said again: your lips will still sting from—
The prosecutor will state I gave succour to an invader,
the defence will claim I had no choice, standing
and alone, my stained ripped mask hanging off one ear—
They predicted I would be stripped of privileges:
In the basement of the hospital laundry, one care worker—
after, they tortured her, too.
My resistance will amount to little,
only a name bestowed upon:
Abigail—sweet little beggar girl-child
she’ll be mine.
The Spy’s Tale to the Investigator
By this time so used were we to wattle and clay,
we always knew to begin that way
We longed for plastic, the bend and bright
of foil, and aluminum strong.
Oh, t
he sheen of nylon, its many uses,
us with our shopping bags and containers.
Multifarious! No one saw steel. Iron maybe.
Wood hoarded. Lock and Key.
Yes, we heard a name, Bramah.
No, not once was seen.
Just an old aunty with a Pippin File.
Guards repeated what she said:
I’ve come for my girl’s girl
I’ll open your lock with a click and a twirl.
The Information
On the Desk of the Investigator:
Authorization: Guards of the Fifth Gate
As produced: One Beggar Boy, age un/known
Successful rendering: 1
Tower Juniper: Monitors disabled
Name: Un/known
Resists all attempts at translation, the Investigator writes in his notebook.
Outside the compound, a group of Beggar Boys chant.
Jamais, Jamais
Report as Delivered:
diverted medical supplies, resorted to Consortium.
stockpile inventory proceeding.
all transport routes secured.
six cases of serum located.
names of subjects, as inoculated, forthcoming.
Tribunal Meeting of the Consortium
To begin, a meeting of the shareholders.
A trillion orders of, and successful.
All the doctor’s clinical trials ended.
Air transports arranged, their private shuttles.
The necessary transactions signed, sent.
Catered wine, a sumptuous lunch: pre-takeoff.
Embossed in gold on their indictment folders,
This is what we have built, and it is good.
The name, Anderson, A.E., then removed.
Outside the Tribunal, chain gangs digging
trenches to prop up Consortium’s wall.
In shackles the captured resisters sing,
This is what we must build, forgive our work.
Outside, Beggar Boys chant, IED, baby.
Inside, the Tribunal’s Secretary declines to call
any witnesses.
After the Meeting, a Verdict
Sword Girls, cheeks tear-stained, chased by Guards, screamed loud:
Let all evil die and the good endure!
Inside their pockets, fragments of torn text
a letter, untouched by Guards, too unsure
to search those quicksilver limbs, fast moving.
Outside the Detention Centre, armed men.
By nightfall a ragtag bunch of Beggar Boys
haul cans of stolen red paint:
After the Verdict, Orders: Signed & Sealed
On the desk of the Investigator:
a set of gold rings, engraved, pressed red wax:
Ransomed Healed Restored Forgiven.
Swirling red capes of the Guards
embroidered, Charity, our rifle shots, not fired
yet—
The Execution of Dr. A.E. Anderson, 2057
The Song of the Stonebreakers’ Yard
That rapid gunfire, close to her chest—
blindfolded and slender, the way she fell
they’ll burn her notes, they’ll kill all who tell.
They called her the brightest, they called her the best.
Bring them the dullards, no stories to mull
her strawberry-blonde hair, shorn to the skull—
Smuggled Out of Detention Centre C
Dear Aunty Agatha,
After the Battle of Kingsway—
how I wish—
and to have told you, everything
and cannot.
I do not know why on certain days—
Time, the hours, distance, the miles—
To recall moments in this unending—
I dread knowledge, act of discovery
inevitable———not yet
ever-present———not yet
oh these my silent pleas
——world without mercy
I found this little girl, beggar Outside Perimeter.
If I should die before—
oh Aunty—
take her away from this place.
Signed, with affection, your loving niece,
A.
Report of the Guards of the Fifth, After a Search for the Little Beggar Girl
We knew to search them huts, wattle and clay,
we always knew to begin that way
We longed for concrete, squared strong, clean corners
Outside Perimeter’s edge, only camps.
Oh, the sheen of nylon, its many uses,
zip-ties handy, swift stun guns held hip height—
Multifarious! No one saw steel. Iron maybe.
Wood hoarded. Lock and Key.
Yes, we heard a name, Bramah.
No, not once was seen.
Just an old aunty with a Pippin File.
Look, she mumbled into her shawl and said:
I’ve come for my girl’s girl
I’ll open your lock with a click and a twirl.
We all laughed. Didn’t mind her words, not then.
Four Aunties at Perimeter’s Edge
—rain landing, courtside abandoned, gates swung
—asphalt cracks extending—we found her bag
—the good doctor, we said, and bent to reach—
—fissure, this, we whispered—outside Tower Juniper
—we held the brown hand of that little girl
—we told those children as was taught, and said:
Just Call Her Abigail
Aftermath: Resisters and Migrants Imprisoned
As found in a witness statement, struck from the record by order of the Investigator
—from the doctor formerly known as A.E. Anderson
Don’t let them forget how to make soap
Don’t let them forget how to make soap
Don’t let them—
At the End of the Parchment Scroll
And did they then weep, sat back on their heels
fingers rubbing those rough tattered edges.
And did Bramah say under her soft breath,
We’ll find Aunty Agatha and ask her—
And did Bramah say, Sweep everything else
save this parchment scroll, tied up with red string—
And did they ferry that old oak box, empty
under night’s cover, no moons to shine bright—
Well, some say it different, they say:
Bramah with trembling hand folded the scroll
her warm skin, the Beggar Boy’s hands, so cold,
they smoothed parchment, tied up with red string pulled
from Bramah’s pocket. The oak chest hauled out,
lighter than expected. Under night’s cover
they fled the farmhouse, looking back only
once where howled a lone wolf high in the hills.
The Adventures of Bramah and the Beggar Boy Continued
Return to the Winter Portal
Seasons of mists, those Beggar Boys sang soft,
magical island of primrose and mist
bribe the Ferryman to give you his list.
Thatched eves, winnowing wind, high in the loft.
Shift-Tilt: our seasons ran cold, marble halls
We called out, chained, from departing buses—
Draco in three thousand, Vega in twelve
Those Beggar Boys replied, their small hands raised—
Draco in three thousand, Vega in twelve
Marble halls, where seasons ran cold, tilt-shift
This present, that is our future
We’ll come back—in twenty-five-nine-two-oh
We’ll come back—in twenty-five-nine-two-oh
Bramah Teaches the Beggar Boy
About the Stars
From Draco to Vega, one degree of—
arcs, those rising places, seventy years
plus two, on the horizon and to the right—
clockwise, wobbling like a dying top, if
lips were to call out, no one would hear such—
messages, extended circles, one journey
to conquer the years, thousands and thousands
Equinox: we were called to travel and——
Honey Hunting in the Wilds of the Western Borealis
Where the forest floor fell, a huge red oak
combs refilled nearer to the tree of bees
circling into figure eights, eastward line.
She told us of a forest: ash, poplar, beech, birch
knot holes, up high in hemlock, wild pouring—
men, she told us, stole thousands of pounds.
She told us of mutant variants, genes wild
Bramah and the Beggar Boy Page 8