New Poetry from Abby E. Murray
Gwen Stefani Knows How to Get Everything I Want
It takes a misdelivered Cosmo
to finally understand what I want
and how to get it. Gwen Stefani
tells the truth on page 89.
We believe in Gwen because
her apron of chainlink stars
sparkles over a black bustier;
star-spangled bondage, says an editor.
She slouches, holds the heel
of her right white Louboutin
in one hand as if to say Congress
respects my body, as if to say
rifles aren’t worth shooting.
This is what I want and Gwen
is here to deliver. When she slips
into a red sport coat and jeans
she comes in loud and clear:
grant proposals that write themselves,
cartons of baby formula
sold from unlocked shelves at CVS,
eight days of rain over California.
Because Gwen knows how to get
everything I want, she can afford
to be an optimist. Pharrell is rad,
her mom is rad, the whole world
is rad. I agree, Gwen, I do!
And I’d be giddy too in that baby blue
jacket, its faux-bullet spikes screaming
peace talks and pacifism,
bubblegum fingernails that tell me
soldiers who drop my writing class
are only on vacation. She pulls
her Union Jack sunglasses down
with one finger. This means Ruth Stone
never died but went into hiding,
it means the grocery store lobsters
have escaped, it means I can refinance.
Gwen steps into a pair of fishnets
as if to say the 2nd Infantry Division
won’t return to Iraq, as if to say minke whales
are singing on the Japanese coast.
Notification
This is how I imagine it.
A black Durango follows me to work,
then home, tracks me to King Soopers
where I buy peppermint tea and milk.
It idles in the parking lot,
the driver obscured by clouds
of bitter exhaust. I know it is a man
by his shoulders, his grinding jaw.
I know he has drawn the short stick.
He tracks me home and waits
until the faint clicking of our luck
slows and stops. He steps outside
on a current of aftershave
and starched polyester,
pulls another man in uniform
from the backseat: he will stay
to help me make arrangements.
They use the handrail on the wooden porch.
They expect to be wounded.
Happy Birthday, Army
I’m wearing lace this time,
gold trim over a black slip because
Happy Birthday, Army.
I offer you these blisters
in my black leather stilettos
with mock-lace cut-outs.
Tom says it’s a short ceremony,
we’ll be done by nine
but he tells the sitter eleven
and I wedge a book into my purse.
In seeing nothing I’ve read too much:
the empty-bellied howitzer
kicked up in the corner of the ballroom
points me toward the cash bar,
casts a shadow over the cream
in my Kahlua and turns the milk grey.
I drink it. I order a second
before the emcee tells the men
to seat their ladies.
Uniforms droop by the exits
on velvet hangers, gas masks
sag on wooden dowels.
Quick, boys! Post the colors!
The lights drop and the general
mounts the stage in a shimmer
of green and yellow spotlights,
tells us to enjoy ourselves for once—
but first these messages:
thank you to our guest speaker,
the anchor from ESPN,
thank you to our sponsors,
thank you to the sergeant major
here to recite “Old Glory”
in the center of the room:
I am arrogant.
I am proud.
I bow to no one.
I am worshipped.
We are dumbstruck,
his recitation flung toward us
like an axe through paper.
Tom finds him later
and pays for his beer.
The chandeliers are champagne,
crystal brims sloshing with bubbles.
Someone’s wife wins a kayak
and just when I think
a lieutenant nearby will surely jump
from his table to shake
a bag of limbs from his eye sockets,
a truckload of body parts
grey with longing for the soul,
a woman’s voice whispers
from beneath the howitzer,
the rented microphone
on fire with song:
happy birrrthday, dear arrrmy
a la Marilyn Monroe,
and we are all a bunch of JFKs
in our lace and heels
and cummerbunds and cords,
watching a five-tiered cake
piped in black and gold buttercream
being pulled between our tables
by a silver robot
and shrug into the silk of knowing
we could end all this
with the flick of a finger
if we wanted.
Majors’ Mafia
They want us to call ourselves
the Majors’ Mafia and by They
I mean We because the Majors
are our husbands and they say
very little about what is discussed
during cocktail hour
at the Commander’s house
as if our words sound friendly
but are muffled by a closed door
and the Wives giggle as if to say
we are not exactly thugs
as if to say they would never!
and a knot of words loosens
at the bottom of my throat
like a paper lantern released
as if to say get out, as if to say
I am on fire, and I have a problem
with the gang metaphor
but also the possessive Majors’—
that bitch of an apostrophe
at the end of my husband’s rank
like I am, we are, owned
the way farmers own turkeys
and we are just as articulate,
just as grand, just as preoccupied,
because farmers are in the business
of keeping turkeys alive until they aren’t,
farmers don’t keep turkeys warm
because turkeys have rights
and these women can’t possibly
be standing in a half circle
around a stack of spangled cupcakes
generating ideas like these,
like names, like possessives,
like we aren’t making ourselves
more palatable by forming a flock
and nibbling sweet things,
and the sugar stars in the frosting
remind me how one can trick
a headstrong bird into eating
by leaving shiny marbles in its dish,
like the bird will think marbles!
I love marbles! then forget to fast,
and these women can’t possibly
be women, they must be birds,
they sound like a lullaby
when they say we need a group name
because we need a Facebook page
in order to express solidarity
and they say solidarity is a survival skill
for all Army Wives,
and the paper lanterns are rising
again up my neck toward the brain stem
and my spine is burning
and I’m thinking about the tomahawks
and sabers and rifles and hunting knives
on the walls here in this lovely home
and I’m thinking survival
is a bread that I can’t eat here,
and I ask them to excuse me
for a moment so I can check
my face in the bathroom mirror
where I find a sugar star wedged
in my teeth and I’m thinking
I could use an ax to fix that.
When Tom Asks Me to Call the Incoming Major’s Wife and Welcome Her to the Battalion
Hi is this Becky this is Abby Murray my husband (different last name) is the S-3
in the battalion where your husband is being sent I don’t know what S stands for or
why 3 anyway Tom’s leaving this position and your husband will replace him soon
you sound nice anyway welcome do you know if there’s something I’m
supposed to say or help you with Tom just said welcome her and I guess I have
I don’t know what does it mean to feel welcome as a woman I really can’t say
every week I feel more at home in a compact mirror I think I was asked to call you
because we are both women my dog doesn’t even speak when I tell her to but
she does bark a lot she likes to speak on her terms anyway the
battalion mascot is a buffalo so people are really into buffalos here buffalo hats
sweaters earrings umbrellas leggings there’s a big dead buffalo in the entryway to
battalion headquarters it was donated by a museum in Alaska the taxidermist
even glazed his nose to make it appear wet like he was snuffling the prairie just
seconds before a glass case sprang up around him and BAM he had a few minutes to breathe
his last bits of air while the herd backed away my daughter loves the buffalo but is
concerned about his lack of oxygen he’s not the only symbol of death in that hallway
there are rifles and sabers as well I’m sorry I hope you like it here the
winters are mild and there’s cedar everywhere it smells good on the coast Tom
says you’re from Texas that’s nice I was in Texas once it was Texasy
I should warn you your husband might ask you to do strange things for reasons he can’t
articulate like calling women because you are a woman and we should all be welcomed
to the jobs we don’t have if there’s anything you need try Google or maybe call
someone who knows your voice I’m sure you’ll be great you sound happy
