Elaine Equi
The Giantess
A woman
in an apricot dress
rests on the steps
in a doorway.
The wide planes
of her arms and legs,
canyons of breast,
are solid as granite
perfectly carved
with eyes so clear
traffic passes like fish
through the river of her sight.
In contrast, it’s the buildings
behind her –
around her –
that seem ephemeral.
On the Cusp
Is not exactly
on the fence –
refusing
to take a side,
but not quite
decided
yet – not having
fully arrived
or finished
crossing
a blurred border
(days set
in parenthesis)
The Lives of Statues
“I love the smell of marble.”
Julia Sinclair
Unblinking.
Statues like philosophers take their time.
Their thoughts are thick --
span centuries
speaking
a) volumes
b) silence
speaking volumes of silence.
But not all are so serious.
Some statues love to go naked and wave swords.
Others require offerings of candy, liquor, perfume, smoke.
In parks, on buildings, in squares,
they oversee –
raise an arm that is missing a hand
in friendly greeting.
From statues, one can learn to pray
(why else are so many found in churches?)
and also to persevere,
but not to wait --
that word isn’t in their vocabulary.
Statues are born old.
Behind many great statues, an irate mother once stood saying:
“Don’t do that or your face will freeze.”
Mannequins being slaves to fashion
are not statues. They are temporal beings.
Statues select their own society.
The Egyptians had a ceremony
“The Opening of the Mouth”
for bringing statues and corpses to life.
The statues in Hindu temples are fanned
and entertained with music.
Lingams are bathed in honey and milk.
As Rodin’s secretary, Rilke had to learn to take dictation from stones.
Lot’s wife: she doesn’t get a name; she doesn’t even get to be a real statue.
It’s not fair!
On moonlit nights, how reassuring to discover
you’re being followed by a statue.
Statues are nothing like ghosts.
Black Bag
A woman who wanted to change
dreamt the same dream every night
of losing her purse: lipstick, keys, ID.
Sometimes they were stolen;
sometimes she merely forgot them.
Every morning she’d check to see
if her purse was where she’d left it –
like looking into a mirror.
Sometimes she even knew in the middle
it was only a dream, but still felt sad
as if she’d lost a dear friend.
In the bottomless black hole of the purse,
it seemed there was always a little more loss
left to lose – but maybe not,
which is why she’d always ask:
What if this time it’s really gone?
__________
Elaine Equi’s books include Ripple Effect: New & Selected Poems, and most recently, Click and Clone, both from Coffee House Press. She teaches at New York University and in the MFA program at the New School.
The Giantess
A woman
in an apricot dress
rests on the steps
in a doorway.
The wide planes
of her arms and legs,
canyons of breast,
are solid as granite
perfectly carved
with eyes so clear
traffic passes like fish
through the river of her sight.
In contrast, it’s the buildings
behind her –
around her –
that seem ephemeral.
On the Cusp
Is not exactly
on the fence –
refusing
to take a side,
but not quite
decided
yet – not having
fully arrived
or finished
crossing
a blurred border
(days set
in parenthesis)
The Lives of Statues
“I love the smell of marble.”
Julia Sinclair
Unblinking.
Statues like philosophers take their time.
Their thoughts are thick --
span centuries
speaking
a) volumes
b) silence
speaking volumes of silence.
But not all are so serious.
Some statues love to go naked and wave swords.
Others require offerings of candy, liquor, perfume, smoke.
In parks, on buildings, in squares,
they oversee –
raise an arm that is missing a hand
in friendly greeting.
From statues, one can learn to pray
(why else are so many found in churches?)
and also to persevere,
but not to wait --
that word isn’t in their vocabulary.
Statues are born old.
Behind many great statues, an irate mother once stood saying:
“Don’t do that or your face will freeze.”
Mannequins being slaves to fashion
are not statues. They are temporal beings.
Statues select their own society.
The Egyptians had a ceremony
“The Opening of the Mouth”
for bringing statues and corpses to life.
The statues in Hindu temples are fanned
and entertained with music.
Lingams are bathed in honey and milk.
As Rodin’s secretary, Rilke had to learn to take dictation from stones.
Lot’s wife: she doesn’t get a name; she doesn’t even get to be a real statue.
It’s not fair!
On moonlit nights, how reassuring to discover
you’re being followed by a statue.
Statues are nothing like ghosts.
Black Bag
A woman who wanted to change
dreamt the same dream every night
of losing her purse: lipstick, keys, ID.
Sometimes they were stolen;
sometimes she merely forgot them.
Every morning she’d check to see
if her purse was where she’d left it –
like looking into a mirror.
Sometimes she even knew in the middle
it was only a dream, but still felt sad
as if she’d lost a dear friend.
In the bottomless black hole of the purse,
it seemed there was always a little more loss
left to lose – but maybe not,
which is why she’d always ask:
What if this time it’s really gone?
__________
Elaine Equi’s books include Ripple Effect: New & Selected Poems, and most recently, Click and Clone, both from Coffee House Press. She teaches at New York University and in the MFA program at the New School.