O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower’d from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.
This poem is in the public domain.
Remember sleep, in May, in the afternoon, like
a girl’s bright feet slipped into dark, new boots.
Or sleep in one another’s arms at 10 o’clock
on a Saturday in June?—that
smiling child hiding behind
the heavy curtain of a photo booth.
All our daysleep, my love, remember sleep
like brides in violets. Sleep
like sleepy pilots casting
the shadows of their silver jets
onto the silver sailboats
they also sailed
on oceans miles below.
Such nothingness, on the other
side of which
infinity slid
into eternity, insisting
that we had lived together forever—and did.
From Where Now. Copyright © 2017 by Laura Kasischke. Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyon.org.
My neighbor keeps a box of baby pigs
all winter in her kitchen. They are
motherless, always sleeping, sleepy
creatures of blood & fog, a vapor
of them wraps my house
in gauze, and the windows mist up
with their warm breath, their moist snores. They
watch her peel potatoes, boil
water from the floor, wearing
a steamy gown. She must be like
Demeter to them, but, like this weather
to me, this box of pigs
is the cause of all my suffering. They smell
of invalids, lotioned. Death is over there. When I
look toward my neighbor’s house, I see
trouble looking back
at me. Horrible life! Horrible town! I start
to dream their dreams. I dream
my muzzle’s pressed
desperately into the whiskered
belly of my dead mother. No
milk there. I dream
I slumber in a cardboard box
in a human kitchen, wishing, while
a woman I don’t love
mushes corn for me in a dish. In
every kitchen in the Midwest
there are goddesses & pigs, the sacred
contagion of pity, of giving, of loss. You can’t
escape the soft
bellies of your neighbors’ calm, the fuzzy
lullabies that drift
in cloudy piglets across their lawns. I dream
my neighbor cuts
one of them open, and stars fall out, and roll
across the floor. It frightens me. I pray
to God to give me
the ability to write
better poems than the poems of those
whom I despise. But
before spring comes, my neighbor’s
pigs die in her kitchen
one by one, and I
catch a glimpse of my own face
in the empty collection plate, looking
up at me, hungrily, one
Sunday—pink, and smudged—and ask it
Isn’t that enough?
From Where Now. Copyright © 2017 by Laura Kasischke. Used by permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Copper Canyon Press, www.coppercanyon.org.