“I went out on a boat with a man and vomited Welch’s
grape juice over the side, and the man said,
‘You’re feeding the fish.’”
Again, here I am, you know,
in a story that’s not-mine/mine,
caught between a painting
(goldfish feeding in a pond:
bubbles, black, orange, plaid)
and an artist’s interview. I feel a little
ill, head over toilet, just in case.
My (I mean this) reaction shocks me.
“At 9 or 10 years old, I had a severe hangover,
was thrown against the wall the night before
and fucked. I ran away and was found, and found
gladly by the person who had hurt me.”
Finders keepers…
I feel as though a bird has lodged
itself in my lungs. A brown capped
sparrow, perhaps. Like the one that
crashed this morning into the kitchen
window. I know this story too well; the bird
will die or fly away. But I don’t want to admit—
“Then he took me out for a fishing trip, and I started
vomiting—the hangover from special drinks made
with sweet things and crushed up Milltowns—”
Don’t make yourself
sick over fish.
I keep remembering how
I sat on his lap, pretended
cowgirl. His trousers stiff
against my butt and thighs.
I pushed his hands away.
I felt his voice on my ear.
You’re so cute I could
eat you up.
(She must have felt, too.)
“He said, ‘Feed the fish,
Jennifer. Feed the fish.’
He pushed my head
under water, held it there.”
Same old story:
My parents trusted him.
He gave me cod
liver oil in his kitchen.
He took me to the fair:
Lights, clown, ferris wheel.
He won two goldfish for me.
Hook, line, and sinker.
“The water is very clear in the Catalinas, and you can
see the fish. I remember being frightened he
would try to kill me again.”
For me, the water became a brick wall—
see the little fishies swimming around.
Meaning: how much more could I endure?
The more I read, the longer he holds
my head (and/or hers) under water.
My goldfish in their Wal-Mart aquarium
had fake pink plants and a treasure chest;
it was easy to pretend everything was okay.
When something was wrong, I painted
the
kitchen yellow. Bright it up
with a coat of Fun in the Sun!
(Think about that for a minute.)
Meanwhile everything inside and
outside of me multiplied: his boots
& his boots & his boots beside my bed.
You know better.
“He pushed my head underwater.”
Now he lives at Days Inn.
His bedroom is the living room.
The bathroom, a kitchen.
I went there. Didn’t—
Styrofoam: Vodka: Old Spice.
Cigarette smoke. Machine ice.
Give and take.
I wanted to hold his
head under water.
“He pushed my head under
water, held it there.”
Dizzy from voices, I want to
paint (the kitchen), forget.
Yes, that’s it.
Narratives and layering—
her story is/isn’t mine.
I remember the click
of his screen door behind me.
My legs pumping, sprinting
down the cracked sidewalk.
Our hydrangeas in bloom,
my front yard, my shadow,
lean, against the hall’s walls.
My palm around the bath’s knob—