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Overview
Christmas draws a circle around the things she calls “holy”: the family line that cannot find its root but survived to fill the skies with radiant flesh; the body, broken and unbroken and broken and new again; the lover lost, the friend lost, and the loss itself; and the hands that hold them all with brilliant, tender care. Expansive and beautiful, these poems allow readers to swim in Jillian Christmas’s mother-tongue and to dream at her shores.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781551527970 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Arsenal Pulp Press, Limited |
| Publication date: | 03/31/2020 |
| Pages: | 80 |
| Sales rank: | 1,113,800 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 8.00(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Casting
I speak things into being if I do not open my mouth that's the kind of witch I am it will not bond conjurer no matter how perfect the blessing careful when I spell your name with my own blood on my tongue
I will not say it unless I believe I don't dare whisper a curse it’s real this backward barking drum this charming trick it is a warning where I give you my voice and it is a metronome the same moment this is a wicked wisdom the breath leaves your lung laying teeth at your boot making ritual unfurling dirge themes of hymns we didn't sing when the magic stopped working when the magic stopped working these hymns we didn't sing unfurling dirge themes making ritual laying teeth at your boot the breath leaves your lung this is a wicked wisdom the same moment and it is a metronome where I give you my voice it is a warning this charming trick this backward barking drum it’ s real
I don't dare whisper a curse I will not say it unless I believe with my own blood on my tongue careful when I spell your name no matter how perfect the blessing Conjurer it will not bond that's the kind of witch I am if I do not open my mouth I speak things into being
The Gospel of Breaking
Dear God is it wrong that so long after our separation
I still see your face everywhere
the holy water between my legs when she touches me the wet in her eyes head pressed back her sinner mouth too full of heaven
this bruised knee city springing with all the wrong kinds of love and all the best company to enjoy it in
I was birthed into a church too comfortable with a God who would make closets into coffins
But I have been born again into the religion of lost souls baptized under bourbon kissed streetlight anointed in smoke plumes there is laughter and blood in my cheek and more than enough of it to feed the masses
today
I see you in every busted lip and back room hand-job my god who has been so quiet this must be your work as baffling as all of your other mercies
hard to tell if this is just the internet, or another dream where I am in front of the class in only my dirty underwear
a crew of my college friends are all gathering at the local watering hole a space with a sprawling patio that overlooks the parking lot and the poor souls waiting below in line
I was a poor soul who had taken too long to put her makeup on and was now watching her friends party with her crush on a patio just out of reach I admit it wasn’t just the makeup
I was rocking a mary j blige vibe that had taken hours to perfect floor-length denim skirt with matching denim stilettos a poofy down bomber jacket with the big furry hood pulled at eye level to give the perception of mystique a vision… who was now listening to the encouragement of her friends skipping the lengthy line and climbing up the steep back fire-escape stairs stealthy as a fledgling emu who has had a touch too much to mike’s hard lemonade
I creep toward the finish line, hike up the denim hem gathered in my hand step one foot at a time over the low gate and I have arrived at the same moment the very irritated bouncer sees me and moves swiftly in my direction okay, I know, I fucked up, i’m going. One foot back over the fence then the other quickly stepping back the way i came hardly minding the coin sized gaps between the fire escape grating just wide enough to swallow a stiletto and suddenly I am sliding downward face first a collective gasp from the crowd above confirming my tenuous fate held only by the strength of my Jessica Simpson heel dangling for all to gawk at, one arm painfully braided between the thin iron railing stranded and helpless I can make out the bottom of the bouncer’s face his expression confirms his changed mission, he is now coming to save me from myself but lo, it is too late, my friends and crush are already gathered around watching crowd is giving me their full attention as the heavy-weight full-length denim begins to inch its way toward my head creeping so slow as to be a torturous staccato reveal of my calves, then thighs, then the whole unfurling my near-naked ass, an unexpected presentation for the patio above cringing lineup below, and the bouncer now frozen in his own tracks no one has sympathy for the girl who tried to sneak her way through they simply applaud a whole club of strangers and friends cheering for the untidy dismount as I pull the hood down low as it will go step into a taxi and take myself to bed
(no gift like a loosened fist)
Today I took a car into town alone.
Mommy fussed and fretted before agreeing to let me go. Finally, standing up by the road, she delivers to me the keys to surviving men who would carry me away from my path and into strange cruel places. She teaches me how to read the licence plates and what they each mean. She teaches me how to point my finger just so. When a car pulls up with a man headed my way, I send him on. She asks me why. I tell her I didn’t trust him. She can see I am learning. She tells me what it means when the window is down and when it is up, the right price to pay and the ride that could cost me more than I am willing. She tells me where to stand, and where to walk and when to run. I tell her that I am not scared, I don’t know this road but I have driven in cars with many men and their demons. When the next car stops to pick me up, I get in. Mommy points her long knobby finger in the driver’s face, makes certain that he knows she has seen him. He seems to understand. As he pulls away my heart begins to beat in double time.
Not far down the road, he stops to pick up two quiet school girls, and even though the girls are no more than 16, a safety falls softly in my chest. Us three, silent, holding our learned secret codes, until the moments they are needed.
Mommy is waiting when I get home.
She meets me at the door, shows me how to lock the gate and how to check it.She talks to me in the front room until her voice and the heat become one with the buzzing fan; carrying me into a soft light sleep, my eyelids sinking, my body unfurling like a loosened fist.