{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.
{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.
/
