Mules of Love

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by Ellen Bass

about whether the universe is expanding,

  contracting, or staying the same.

  And What If I Spoke of Despair

  And what if I spoke of despair—who doesn’t

  feel it? Who doesn’t know the way it seizes,

  leaving us limp, deafened by the slosh

  of our own blood, rushing

  through the narrow, personal

  channels of grief. It’s beauty

  that brings it on, calls it out from the wings

  for one more song. Rain

  pooled on a fallen oak leaf, reflecting

  the pale cloudy sky, dark canopy

  of foliage not yet fallen. Or the red moon

  in September, so large you have to pull over

  at the top of Bayona and stare, like a photo

  of a lover in his uniform, not yet gone;

  or your own self, as a child,

  on that day your family stayed

  at the sea, watching the sun drift down,

  lazy as a beach ball, and you fell asleep with sand

  in the crack of your smooth behind.

  That’s when you can’t deny it. Water. Air.

  They’re still here, like a mother’s palms,

  sweeping hair off our brow, her scent

  swirling around us. But now your own

  car is pumping poison, delivering its fair

  share of destruction. We’ve created a salmon

  with the red, white, and blue shining on one side.

  Frog genes spliced into tomatoes—as if

  the tomato hasn’t been humiliated enough.

  I heard a man argue that genetic

  engineering was more dangerous

  than a nuclear bomb. Should I be thankful

  he was alarmed by one threat, or worried

  he’d gotten used to the other? Maybe I can’t

  offer you any more than you can offer me—

  but what if I stopped on the trail, with shreds

  of manzanita bark lying in russet scrolls

  and yellow bay leaves, little lanterns

  in the dim afternoon, and cradled despair

  in my arms, the way I held my own babies

  after they’d fallen asleep, when there was no

  reason to hold them, only

  I didn’t want to put them down.

  Insomnia

  All over the world, people can’t sleep.

  In different time zones, they are lying awake,

  bodies still, minds trudging along like child laborers.

  They worry about bills. They worry

  whether the shoes they just bought

  are really too small. One’s husband died,

  her son left for college, and she doesn’t

  know how to program the VCR.

  Another was beaten by her husband.

  One is planning a getaway.

  One holding stolen goods.

  One’s on the plaid couch in ICU. His daughter,

  it turned out, actually does have a brain tumor

  even though the doctor said they’d do the MRI just

  to rule it out. The woman on the other couch

  is snoring—which is strangely soothing—

  evidence that people do sleep.

  Some are lying on Charisma sheets.

  Some in hammocks. Some in jail. Some

  under bridges. One is at the North Pole

  studying the impact of pollution.

  A man in Massachusetts thinks about a lover

  he once had in Dar es Salaam and the jasmine

  blossoms she strung along the shaft of a silver

  pin, fastened in her hair at night. Coincidentally,

  the lover, now in Rome, remembers

  looking out the window over the sink

  when she was washing dishes. He was reading

  in a lawn chair and she thought how,

  perhaps for the first time, she wasn’t lonely.

  Some are too cold. Some

  too hot. Some hungry. Some in pain.

  Some are in hotels listening to people having sex

  in the next room. Some are crying.

  One the cat woke up

  and now she’s worried about the rash

  she noticed in the evening and wonders

  if her daughter, who’s afraid to swim,

  should be pushed.

  Some get up. Others stay in bed.

  They eat Oreo’s or drink wine—or both.

  Many read. A few make intricate

  Halloween costumes: a peacock

  with eight real feathers in the tail.

  Some check their e-mail. They try

  sleep tapes, hypnosis, drugs.

  And listen to their clocks tick, smartly

  as women in high heels.

  Those who can, cling to their mates,

  an ear pressed to those neighboring lungs like a

  stethoscope, hoping to catch a ride

  on the steady sleep breath of the other, to be carried

  like a seed on the body of the one who is able.

  Right now, in Japan, dawn is coming

  and everyone who’s been up all night

  is relieved. They can stop trying.

  In Guatemala, though, the insomniacs are just

  getting started and have the whole

  night ahead of them. It’s like a wave

  at the baseball stadium, hands

  around the world.

  So here’s a prayer

  for the wakeful, the souls who can’t rest:

  As you lie with eyes

  open or closed, may something

  comfort you—a mockingbird, a breeze, the smell

  of crushed mint, Chopin’s Nocturnes,

  your child’s birth, a kiss,

  or even me—in my chilly kitchen

  with my coat over my nightgown—thinking of you.

  Notes

  “Pay for It,” p. 25: Robert Bly, Iron John (New York: Addison-Wesley, 1990) p. 176.

  “If There Is No God,” p. 29: Lyrics by Dorothy Fields; music by Jimmy McHugh.

  Acknowledgments

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of the following publications in which these works or earlier versions of them previously appeared:

  Alaska Quarterly Review: “Why People Murder”;

  The Beloit Poetry Journal: “I Love the Way Men Crack”;

  Bridges: “Guilt”;

  Comstock Review: “Tigers and People”;

  DoubleTake: “Jack Gottlieb’s in Love”;

  Field: “God and the G-Spot,” “His Teeth”;

  The Greensboro Review: “Marriage Without Sex,” “Pay for It”;

  Kalliope: “Birds Do It,” “Everything on the Menu”;

  Mangrove: “Poem to My Sex at Fifty-One”;

  The Missouri Review: “And What If I Spoke of Despair”;

  Nimrod: “Can’t Get Over Her,” “Mighty Strong Poems,” “Phone Therapy”;

  The Paterson Literary Review: “Backdoor Karaoke,” “If,” “Sleeping Next to the Man on the Plane”;

  Porter Gulch Review: “Laundry”;

  Piedmont Literary Review: “In My Hands”;

  Quarry West: “Sometimes, After Making Love”;

  Red Rock: “The Moon”;

  Sojourner: “Getting My Hands on My Mother’s Body,” “The Sad Truth,” “Working in the Garden”;

  The Sun: “Worry”;

  Tribes: “Remodeling the Bathroom”;

  Women’s Studies Quarterly: “If There Is No God”;

  ZYZZYVA: “Tulip Blossoms.”

  “Bearing Witness” appears in Like Thunder: Poets Respond to Violence in America (University of Iowa Press); “Sometimes, After Making Love” appears in Intimate Kisses: The Poetry of Sexual Pleasure (New World Library); “For My Daughter on Her Twenty-First Birthday” appears as “Mules of Love” in Baby Blessings: Prayers and Poems Celebrating Mothers and Babies (Harmony Books); “The Thin
g Is” appears in Bedside Prayers (HarperCollins), Bless the Day (Kodansha), and Prayers for a Thousand Years (HarperSan Francisco); “After Our Daughter’s Wedding” and “God and the G-Spot” appear in Women Artists Datebook (Syracuse Cultural Workers).

  “Can’t Get Over Her,” “Mighty Strong Poems,” and “Phone Therapy” were selected for the 2000 Pablo Neruda Prize from Nimrod/Hardman.

  “And What If I Spoke of Despair” was selected for the 2002 Larry Levis Editor’s Prize for Poetry from The Missouri Review.

  My sincere gratitude to all my students, teachers, and friends, with special thanks to Florence Howe, Lucy Diggs, Michael Ponsor, and Charlotte Raymond for early and continuing support; to Sharon Olds for the right words at the right time; to Kim Addonizio, Joe Millar, and Thorn Ward for generous and insightful critique; and most of all, to Dorianne Laux, without whom my poems would still be in their pajamas, sipping coffee, trying to wake up.

  About the Author

  Ellen Bass co-edited the groundbreaking book, No More Masks!: An Anthology of Poems by Women and has published four previous volumes of poetry, I’m Not Your Laughing Daughter, Of Separateness and Merging, For Earthly Survival, and Our Stunning Harvest. Her nonfiction books include I Never Told Anyone, Free Your Mind, and The Courage to Heal, which has been translated into nine languages. Among her awards are the Elliston Book Award from the University of Cincinnati, The Pablo Neruda Prize from Nimrod/Hardman, and the Larry Levis Editor’s Prize from The Missouri Review. She lives in Santa Cruz, CA, where she has taught creative writing since 1974.

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