New Poetry by Denise Jarrott

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Rembrandt’s Susanna and the Elders, pen and brown ink, 1650-1652

 

manhunt

will I always be poor

always a slowing of small

pittings where roots were

milkweed

meadowsweet

rue or

pink lilies on a backdrop dark, blooming

rather against than next to

themselves vibrating

against the black soil deep as a hole

in the ground and quick to wither, water

swell into a dawn dark, then day

the horizon a series of holes and oaks

the field dressed as deer

as viper

as garden

as the sun red as fish mouths in Iowa

in summer while here I keep my eye to the scope

to the fourth county over

to the fielded to the fallow now

I can scale up a wall now

I am pressing my hair against the sap of a tree I have learned now

I will not be free will I always be with Iowa where I was

exposed grass flat land grazed like a comb through my wet hair

my six years

body folded

up in the towel

of okoboji

where I learned

to fear my god

given ability

to see snakes

dark ropes

in the dark

soil the darkness from

which the honey-gold

the sweet

corn springs tall

springs bright springs

sweet

water

no, I am not

a farmer’s daughter

though my grandmother

was my grandmother

gold and black teeth she

was the child of a farmer

she ate nothing but corn she

thinks not of herself

no I am not my father’s

daughter spring-

loaded the metal somehow

always cold is this

supposed to make me

feel safe colt

number to give me peace the kind

I could

rest in if I

wanted to I wanted

to my father

points a smith

and wesson a remington

at a shape

at a man

at an outline

of a boyfriend

of a starling, of a squirrel

the only way to feel safe is to sleep

with death between your knees between your teeth

with death under

the bed as if in the yellow light of farmhouses

you’d win you’d know

what to do you’d hold

death against their heads you’d keep

death hidden in a closet in a chest

you’d keep it near you’d keep us all

alive

I learned no poisonous snakes live in Iowa no lions no sharks just men

made of leather lubricated laughter killdeer

nested in the rocks at the water

plant was I not always

looking

to be approached by a colt by

a steer, not looking to see a streak of orange move across my line

of vision not looking

to meet god in a grove,

in a field in a cave by a river

Io a white bull with clover

in my fist as defense fed

held out circled in looking out

at a pocked horizon at a land I loved only because it was wounded from whose hand I fed on meat so red it made me cramp my body seized like a fist

I swum out to the middle of the lake I played

a game I spent

my money in another place I placed

a bet my body made

of golden tickets of air heavy as water isn’t there

a place where a body is supposed to end isn’t there

someone I’m supposed to find

a soft wavering, a shimmering

a minnow, a mouth

a how and a why, a wren,

a winnowing, a face,

I could wipe, hair I could brush

I could feed it food and the food would go away

alive even when I wasn’t looking

 

AUTOMATA

My new job is to exchange one thing for another,
My new job is to install veils between the wealthier members
of the audience and my compatriots. My new job is to balance
a camel on the head of a pin, my new job is to make it dance,
and isn’t it the dance that connects me to the world? Aren’t I lucky
to be here at all, squashing cockroaches that rain down from the ceiling,
aren’t I lucky to support my whole family with my brain in it’s numb
skull? My new job affords me and my family a vacation at the lake two hours
north of the lake on which we live. My new job is to fill my mouth with clear
goo and call it a hot meal. My new job is working toothpaste to the end of the tube
and not leave any toothpaste behind. My new job is to become a screen, bright white,
for everyone to yell at, my job is to be a white sheet to throw tomatoes at. My new job
involves a lot of interface with the public. My new job is to make sure my hatred
doesn’t leak out of the holes in my face. My new job is better than no job.
My new job is dabbing drool off of a wall of stuffed animals. My new job is cleaning
up blood and cum and spit and shit and snot. When my new job is over (for today),
my compatriots and I go out for wine we spill
wine all over each other, we spill blood. We go home and pat
our stomachs which for today are full. We go home but do not
squeeze our hands goodbye. I am in a cab and I hate myself for it,
I pull my smock over my face so that I cannot see the numbers tick and glow,
my new job is beating its fists against my brain. I think I’m growing a new worry
stone in my body, I think my body is full of piss but I do not want to move.
I might piss in the street before I get home, get in bed
alone. How much does this cost, how much?

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Denise Jarrott

Denise Jarrott is the author of the chapbook Nine Elegies (dancing girl press). Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in jubilat, Bombay Gin, Bat City Review, small po[r]tions and elsewhere. She grew up in Iowa and currently lives in Brooklyn.

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