Index of Women

{from an Introduction to some fragments of the Index of Women}

So, given the document’s age and ravaged state,

it’s far from the epic we thought we’d be left

by our ancestors. Where, for example,

are the gods, floods, beasts, and prophesies?

of these women tell me

In fairness, evidence suggests that the authors

of this scattershot, fragmented volume never

called what they were collecting and setting

down an “epic,” “catalog,” or “index”

but instead used a term that most closely

translates to “inheritance” in our language.

she who holds the keys

she who can speak to bees

she who guards the crosswalks

she who unites disparate nations and faiths

will remain ageless all her days.

Also uncharacteristic of a true epic is the text’s

intrinsic ambivalence, for instance, its mentions,

often ironic, of modesty, gracefulness, purity, delicacy,

civility, compliance, reticence, chastity, affability, and

politeness, next to sentences like “slut” being,

of course, an honorific, and when the body insists,

who are you to contradict it? as well as numerous

other sexual references.

of these women tell me:

such as she, swallower of swords, sorrow, and semen

such as she who is a physical stud

such as she who is born anew every second

such as she who breaks speed limits

such as she who represents the totality of what can be known

such as she who leads mixed-gender teams into battle

she who manages, no matter where she is, to keep herself clean

she who was buried in her Girl Scout uniform—

sash covered with merit badges

Authored over the course of generations,

often under dire conditions (some type

of plague may have been raging

during the first few decades in which

it was written), the text at times seems

to mutate, containing a shifting chorus

of voices singing in unison. At other

times, speakers are for pages

engaged in spirited debates.

we loaded our battered Chevy with provisions:

bedding, bottles, pots, pans, high chair, crib,

then she began having second thoughts about our mission.

Envision, then, a text riddled with disputed

fragments, its breath smelling of cough drops,

mouthwash, and cigarettes, or instant coffee,

or gin, its hands shoved into oven mitts.

A document that comes down to us in tatters,

passages of which we are told were composed

over a Royal Warrior stove in bright brave true blue!!

of these women tell me: superlative examples of their kind

For no reason we can find

the document includes a selection

of cheerful seasonal songs

and several attempts to describe

the sounds made by wind chimes.

Tell me of the seamstress of souls

of those night wanderers and root diggers

of she who moves easily between worlds

she who holds her teacup high over her head

when victorious, laughing so hard

tea splatters down her gown

We had hoped to learn about ancient notions

of the heroic. All we have found so far are vows,

curses, recipes, regrets, prayers, elegies,

love songs, tales of drug trips, protests,

remedies, household hints, and practical

instructions: for growing tomatoes in poor soil,

for curing infections, and for easing the dying

out of this life, to offer three random examples.

a Girl Scout’s honor is to be trusted

a Girl Scout is loyal

a Girl Scout is a friend to all and a sister to every other Girl Scout

a Girl Scout is clean in thought, word, and deed

It is impossible to tell when the last undamaged copy was lost.

you are not going to get a wilting flower

you are going to get a hard-charging female

Perhaps it can be loosely classed as a “shattered epic”?

it is recounted that women drove their cars to remote sites

to mate with rivers, animals, and trees

Here the page is badly damaged, with only four lines decipherable:

such as she who could diagnose with her nose

such as she who can say NO

such as she who tends those floating in coma

such as she who sees ghosts before breakfast . . .

Virginity

Lying down on the rug with someone and getting dust

bunnies in your hair. The eloquence of long pauses.

Passing notes rather than speaking. A basement fogged

with pot smoke. Trying to read another body via its breathing.

The idea that if you kiss someone you can taste what they

just ate. Refusing to eat what your mother cooks anymore,

which hurts her feelings. But you can’t stand dead sautéed

animal inside your mouth now, so you have to spit it out.

The myth that innocence is protective. The idea of not

being able to stop. Reading secret magazines a cousin stuffed

into the bottom of his sleeping bag. The idea that someone

curious about your body isn’t interested in the private theater

of your mind. Theories that there might be a kind of

violence about it. How Mother insists that without true love

it’s just worthless humping, and the idea that for the life

you aspire to, she’s probably wrong. What your body has

promised for so long. The idea of your disastrous premiere.

The idea of someone laughing at you after. The idea of

hoofprints, stampede damage, being crushed underfoot.

The idea of keeping all this hidden as you slowly lotus open.

Ode to Birth Control

Fertility hot on my heels like a Fury,

and I at that young age in such a blind hurry

to embrace the opposite of what was chaste.

That’s where you came in—You jellies,

You douches, in white pliable tubes

like the family toothpaste. And You:

cylindrical plastic applicator, squirting

a plume of contraceptive goo

on a bathroom wall

that first night I fumbled with you.

Ancient birth control methods include:

fish bladders linen sheaths

honey lint acacia leaves

and my personal favorite: crocodile dung

gummy substances to stop up

the mouth of the womb

silkworm guts were also thought useful

Margaret Sanger’s words

clang in the head:

woman as brood animal

A friend sends a Victorian postcard

of a large stork, bundle dangling from its beak,

chasing a woman in hat and bustle

as she attempts to defend herself with her umbrella.

The caption reads: and still the villain pursues her

Rare, that early flash of self-knowledge

that while I might care deeply

for other people’s children, I was not mother

material. Not sane enough. Ill too often.

Etc. I don’t believe I have to provide an excuse.

And so, You, Madame Diaphragm,

were pressed into service: shallow rubber cup

anointed with cold-as-a-Slurpee spermicide,

then folded in half and shoved up inside.

The diaphragm slept in a pink plastic case

that clicked shut like the hatch of a

spacecraft. Diaphragm: a contraceptive

device that Margaret Sanger (I will kiss her

shoes if we meet in the afterlife) was jailed

for smuggling into the U.S., in brandy

bottles, birth control being illegal in 1918.

Pamphlets or books on the topic were

also banned, considered obscene.

During certain years I nevertheless

ached for an infant’s weight to cradle, caress,

longed to clone in utero the men I loved best.

Nowadays, when I get my hands on

a nice, juicy baby, somebody’s burping,

shitting little god, I tremble and pray.

Some babies wave arms and legs languidly

as if rehearsing water ballet.

A few are as inconsolable as adults.

Except a baby is never wrong.

To be taken over, invaded. To swell. To harbor a being in your body who won’t leave. To be a vessel, a container. To once again become secondary to a life deemed more important than yours. To host a kind of parasite. To have your organs squashed to make room for another human. Not to be alone in your body anymore, to become a form of packaging and/or housing. To be temporarily double-souled. To eat, sleep, and breathe for two. To be sapped, waylaid, stopped in your tracks. To be trapped, to have no means of escape, to be forced to

(until men and women are absolved from

the fear of becoming parents,

except when they themselves desire it)

become not a person but a place, a site, someone’s ground zero, their very first hometown. They hide in the guest room of your womb and set up camp. And your body begins to shift for their benefit. Whether you’re willing or not. Whether you have money or a place to live. Whether you can take of yourself, or

These “medicines,” these devices,

became in my day as part of one’s anatomy,

one’s exertions/insertions,

the secrecy of secretions,

the panics, narrow escapes,

nightmares of being chased

by armies of greedy babies.

Let me alone! Forgive me!

We girls stared down pharmacy clerks

or squirmed in stirrups

of bow tie–wearing gynecologists,

bought or begged these items

and prayed they’d work.

or, you may eat a concoction of oil and quicksilver after the fact

And You IUDs . . . Copper-7, tiny

wire-wrapped numeral who caused

a year of hellish cramps. Dalkon

Shield shaped like a horseshoe crab.

Hormone pills in roulette wheel dispensers.

Plastic, rubber, and chemical protectresses,

all I have to offer is this awkward song.

Across the trajectory of my childless life,

I call out to you now, name you and praise you.

I owe you all I’ve tried to be.

Anthem

Dear blitzkrieg of wetness and breasts.

Dear masseuses and muses, thighs sluiced

with juices. Dear coven members posing

peppery questions, like: Is a witchy third breast

akin to a third eye? Can we climb into the light

now from cellars and attics? Can we abandon

our nectar dance temporarily, stop skimming

froth off cauldrons and let our bravura arias

ascend? So much depends upon shrewd,

ingenious, difficult women, prodigal daughters

and wisecracking wives, unwilling brides, bakers

of exploding pies, giantesses in whose tresses

condors nest, audacious maidens with blood on

their tongues, all of whose chests house untamed

hearts: How is it your beauty never departs?

Tooth Fairy Sonnet

I can’t tolerate daylight, so I slip into the dim of kids’

bedrooms at night, adorned with necklaces made of

baby teeth. The color white makes me retch. I’d like

to resign, become something other than a fang

collector. I can fly, but only as a limp, boneless ghost,

a spectral jellyfish with floating skirts, a marble quarry

whirlwind. I smell of chalk dust, old dental records,

ossuaries, loss, and skeletons cleaned of meat. My

breath is a whiff of extinction. I have eyes like

mustard seeds. No, I’m not pretty. To reach your

world of porcelain drinking fountains and molar-

rotting toffees, I navigate a long, winding tunnel

each evening, parts of which are dark, and parts

of which are the hurt pink of a sore throat.