by Annie Finch
to comprehend this bewilderment of light?
1The Industrial Workers of the World Labor union.
2Same goes for you, dildo store cashier. (But thank you for the discount).
BODY
FROM “TAM LIN”
Anonymous Balladeers
(Scottish, sixteenth century)
Lady Margaret, Lady Margaret, was sewing at her seam.
And she’s all dressed in black,
When a thought comes to her head to run into the wood,
To pick flowers to flower her hat, me boys,
To pick flowers to flower her hat.
She’s hoisted up her petticoats a bit above her knee
And so nimbly she’d run o’er the plain.
And when she’s come to the merry green wood,
She pulled them branches down, down
She pulled them branches down.
And suddenly she spied a fine young man
Stood underneath the tree,
Saying, “How dare you pull them branches down
Without the leave of me, lady,
Without the leave of me?”
She says, “This little wood it is me very own,
Me father give it me.
And I can pull these branches down
Without the leave of thee, young man,
Without the leave of thee.”
He’s taken her by the lily-white hand
And by the grass-green sleeve
And he’s laid her down at the foot of a bush.
He’s never once asked her leave, me boys,
He’s never once asked her leave.
And when it was done she has turned herself about
To ask her true-love’s name.
But she nothing heard and nothing saw
And all the woods grew dim, me boys,
And all the woods grew dim.
There’re four and twenty ladies all in the court
Grown red as any rose.
Excepting for young Margaret
And green as glass she goes, any glass,
Yes, green as glass she goes.
Outten spoke the first serving girl,
She lifted her head and smiled,
“I think me lady’s loved too long
And now she goes with child, me dears,
Now she goes with child.”
And outten spoke the second serving girl
“Oh, ever and alas,” said she,
“I think I know a herb in the merry green wood
That’ll twine the babe from thee, Lady,
That’ll twine the babe from thee.”
Lady Margaret, she picked up her silver comb,
Made haste to comb her hair.
She’s away to the merry green wood
As fast as she can tear, me boys,
As fast as she can tear.
She hadn’t pulled a herb in that merry green wood
A herb but barely one
When by her stood young Tam Lin
Saying, “Margaret, leave it alone, me love,
Margaret, leave it alone.”
“Oh no, how can you pull that bitter little herb
The herb that grows so grey
To take away that sweet babe’s life
We got in our play, me love,
That we got in our play?”
“Oh tell me the truth, young Tam Lin,” she says
“If an earthly man you be.”
“I’ll tell you no lies, Lady Margaret,” he says,
“I was christened the same as thee, me dear,
I was christened the same as thee.”
“But as I rode out one cold and bitter day
From off me horse I fell,
And the Queen of Elfland she took me
In yonder green hill to dwell, me dear,
In yonder green hill to dwell.”
“But this night it is the Hallow-een
When the Elven Court must ride.
And if you would your true love win
By the old-mill bridge you must bide, me dear,
By the old-mill bridge you must bide.”
“And first will come the black horse and then come by the brown
And then race by the white.
But you’ll hold me fast and fear me not
And I will not you affright, me love,
I will not you affright.”
“And then they will change me all in your arms
Into many a beast sae wild.
But you’ll hold me fast and fear me not
I’m the father of your child, you know,
You know that I’m the father of your child.”
So, Margaret has taken up her silver comb,
Made haste to comb her hair.
And she’s away to the old-mill bridge
As fast as she can tear, me boys,
As fast as she can tear.
And at the dead hour of the night
She heard the harness ring.
And oh, me boys, it chilled her heart
More than any mortal thing, it did,
More than any mortal thing.
And first come by the black horse and then come by the brown
And then race by the white.
And she held it fast and feared it not
And it did not her affright, me boys,
It did not her affright.
The thunder rolled across the sky,
And the stars they blazed like day,
And the Queen of Elfland gave a thrilling cry,
“Oh, young Tam Lin’s away, away
Oh, young Tam Lin’s away.”
And then they have changed him all in her arms
To a lion that roared so wild.
But she held it fast and feared it not,
It was the father of her child, she knew
It was father of her child.
And then they have changed him all in her arms
Into a loathsome snake.
But she held it fast and feared it not,
It was one of God’s own make, she knew
It was one of God’s own make.
And then they have changed him all in her arms
To a red-hot bar of iron.
But she held it fast and feared it not,
It did to her no harm, me boys
It did to her no harm.
And at last they have changed him all in her arms
It was to a naked man.
And she’s flung her mantle over him,
Crying, “Me love I’ve won, I’ve won,”
Oh crying, “Me love I’ve won.”
And outten spoke the Queen of Elfland
From the bush wherein she stood,
“I should have tore out your eyes Tam Lin
And put in two eyes of wood, of wood
Put in two eyes of wood.”
THE BUSINESS OF MACHINES
Shirley Geok-lin Lim
The woman:
It moves. I don’t want to.
She would not look into his eyes.
It was business they
Were there on together.
The stranger:
Part your legs. Relax.
It could have been a stone.
A splinter curled. The shock
Of her nature, almost forgotten,
Showed still pacing, able to kill.
The story:
It could have been funny.
Or wicked. His machine took back
The stone, the splinter, the mess
On the floor. She was part
Of a process of numbers.
The women napped on white cots
In long silent rows.
FROM HEAT AND DUST
Ruth Prawer Jhabvala
Maji was in the state of samadhi. To be in that state means to have reached a higher level of consciousness and to be submerged in its bliss. At such times, Maji is entirely unaware of anything going on around her. She sits on the floor in the
lotus pose; her eyes are open but the pupils turned up, her lips slightly parted with the tip of the tongue showing between them. Her breathing is regular and peaceful as in dreamless sleep.
When she woke up—if that’s the right expression, which it isn’t—she smiled at me in welcome as if nothing at all had occurred. But, as always at such times, she was like a person who has just stepped out of a revivifying bath, or some other medium of renewal. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes shone. She passed her hands upwards over her face as if she felt it flushed and fiery. She has told me that whereas it used to be very difficult for her to make the transition from samadhi back to ordinary life, now it is quite easy and effortless.
When I spoke to her about the woman who had so mysteriously followed me, she said, “You see, it has started.” Apparently, it wasn’t mysterious at all—the woman was a midwife marking me down as a potential client. She must have noticed me before and followed me today to check up on her suspicions. My condition would be perfectly obvious to her by the way I walked and held myself. In a day or two she would probably offer me her services. And now Maji offered me her own again: “This would be a good time,” she said, “Eight or nine weeks—it would not be too difficult.”
“How would you do it?” I asked, almost in idle curiosity.
She explained that there were several ways, and at this early stage a simple massage, skillfully applied, might do it. “Would you like me to try?” she asked.
I said yes—again I think just out of curiosity. Maji shut the door of her hut. It wasn’t a real door but a plank of wood someone had given her. I lay down on the floor, and she loosened the string of my Punjabi trousers. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. I wasn’t, not at all. I lay looking up at the roof which was a sheet of tin, and at the mud walls blackened from her cooking fire. Now, with the only aperture closed, it was quite dark inside and all sorts of smells were sealed in—of dampness, the cow dung used as fuel, and the lentils she had cooked; also of Maji herself. Her only change of clothes hung on the wall, unwashed.
She sat astride me. I couldn’t see her clearly in the dark, but she seemed larger than life and made me think of some mythological figure: one of those potent Indian goddesses who hold life and death in one hand and play them like a yo-yo. Her hands passed slowly down my womb, seeking out and pressing certain parts within. She didn’t hurt me—on the contrary, her hands seemed to have a kind of soothing quality. They were very, very hot; they are always so, I have felt them often (she is always touching one, as if wanting to transmit something). But today they seemed especially hot, and I thought this might be left over from her samadhi, that she was still carrying the waves of energy that had come to her from elsewhere. And, again, I had the feeling of her transmitting something to me—not taking away, but giving.
Nevertheless, I suddenly cried out, “No, please stop!” She did so at once. She got off me and took the plank of wood from the door. Light streamed in. I got up and went outside, into that brilliant light. The rain had made everything shining green and wet. Blue tiles glinted on the royal tombs and everywhere there were little hollows of water that caught the light and looked like precious stones scattered over the landscape. The sky shone in patches of monsoon blue through puffs of cloud, and in the distance, more clouds, but of a very dark blue, were piled on each other like weightless mountains.
“Nothing will happen, will it?” I asked Maji anxiously. She had followed me out of the hut and was no longer the dark mythological figure she had been inside but her usual, somewhat bedraggled motherly self. She laughed when I asked that and patted my cheek in reassurance. But I didn’t know what she was reassuring me of. Above all I wanted nothing to happen—that her efforts should not prove successful. It was absolutely clear to me now that I wanted my pregnancy and the completely new feeling—of rapture—of which it was the cause.
1923
Satipur also had its slummy lanes, but Khatm had nothing else. The town huddled in the shadow of the Palace walls in a tight knot of dirty alleys with ramshackle houses leaning over them. There were open gutters flowing through the streets. They often overflowed, especially during the rains, and were probably the cause, or one of them, of the frequent epidemics that broke out in Khatm. If it rained rather more heavily, some of the older houses would collapse and bury the people inside them. This happened regularly every year.
It had happened the week before opposite the house to which Olivia was taken. The women attending on her were still talking about it. One of them described how she had stood on the balcony to watch a wedding procession passing below. When the bridegroom rode by, everyone surged forward to see him, and there was so much noise, she said, the band was playing so loudly that, at first, she had not realized what was happening though it was happening before her eyes. She saw the house opposite, which she had known all her life, suddenly cave inwards and disintegrate, and the next moment everything came crashing and flying through the air in a shower of people, bricks, tiles, furniture, and cooking pots. It had been, she said, like a dream, a terrible dream.
What was happening to Olivia was also like a dream. Although no one could have been more matter-of-fact than the women attending her: two homely, middle-aged midwives doing the job they had been commissioned for. The maidservant who had brought her had also been quite matter-of-fact. She had dressed Olivia in a burka and made her follow her on foot through the lanes of Khatm. No one took any notice of them—they were just two women in burkas, the usual walking tents. The street of the midwives was reached by descending some slippery steps (here Olivia, unused to her burka, had to be particularly careful). The midwives’ house was in a tumbledown condition—very likely it would go in the next monsoon; the stairs looked especially dangerous. They were so dark that her escort had to take Olivia’s hand—for a moment Olivia shrank from this physical contact but only for a moment, knowing that soon she would be touched in a far more intimate manner and in more intimate places.
PSALM
Alina Stefanescu
For the crochet hook and
the knitting needle,
makers of homes and warm bodies.
For the slender wooden dowel
that broke inside a
woman no one dared help.
For the raspberry leaf and
the stinging nettle,
boiled across centuries.
For the pliable metal
coat hangers that
we hid in household closets.
For all who have died
female bodies
the merciless felled.
ON THE DEATH AND HACKING INTO A HUNDRED PIECES OF NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD BARBARA LOFRUMENTO BY AN ILLEGAL ABORTIONIST, 1962
Pat Falk
A botched abortion and the whole world bleeds.
Or so it seemed to the doctor
who didn’t want to do it in the first place.
He had panicked when she died on the table.
So much blood he could not tell
the fetus from the woman,
so he kept on cutting, delivering
decisive strikes to the chest, finding that
the buzz saw carried from the shed worked best.
How hard was her skull?
How quickly did he gather, bag, and drag
the parts to the kitchen sink?
How does one stuff chunks of flesh
and lengths of bone down a long steel drain
where thin-edged blades,
spinning like the law
that brought him to this madness,
grind the matter down to soft pink pulp?
The earth, he prays, will heal this wound in silence.
He turns on the tap, washes the woman away.
FROM SELF-RITUAL FOR INVOKING RELEASE OF SPIRIT LIFE IN THE WOMB
Deborah Maia
During ritual today, I sat naked in the midst of a circle of red silk, red wool, garnet, and red coral. I drummed and chanted to Mother Earth … to Mother Spirit … t
o Spirit Life within my Womb. A chant came forth while in trance:
Great One who lives within my Womb
I accept with Love
Great One who lives within my Womb
I release with Love
Great One who lives within my Womb
I accept with Love
Great One who lives within my Womb
I release with Love
In a south window of my house stands a circle of iridescent red glass. I create a ritual with this circle of redness as my focus … as my altar. It is midday, the Sun shines brightly through the red circle.
The connection with the South, and the gifts of fire, passion, and sparks of life, became most apparent. The vision of fire grows before me and within me.
This fire within me is releasing
the Spirit Life within my Womb.
I sense the embrace of Mother Earth as She guides me to the South: the gateway to passion … to love … to One who lives within my Womb.
I walk outside. The icy air is very still and large snowflakes are falling. I stand for several minutes, in deep appreciation of winter’s beauty, when quite suddenly I feel a warm moist ooze coming from my vagina. When I look inside my pants, my eyes meet with a loose formed clot of bright red.
I feel uplifted to a peak of elation.
I offer gratitude
to my Body for strength.
I offer gratitude
to my Intuition for guidance.
I offer gratitude
to my Heart for love.
I offer gratitude
to my Mind for knowledge.
I offer gratitude
to my blessed Spirit for balance.
As the day moves on, the slight cramping, the heaviness, the spotting decrease. By evening all has stopped.
AND THERE IS THIS EDGE
Lauren R. Korn
I don’t believe in God, but I do have some pretty interesting thoughts concerning ghosts.
—Ada Limón
the relief of itching
around
something that itches
the containment
of [something harmful]
held by winter’s still
in my body a foreign object
in my body, a foreign object
I cannot identify the tree outside my kitchen window, and so approved street trees for the city of Missoula, Montana