Tag: francine j. harris

by francine j. harris

The minute you say want, the light which was red

is most certainly now, a womb—a thing no one wants to

stare into, most certainly a thistle, where nothing is safe.

any corner could be a cement truck. or a gun. Strange

no umbrella prong ever catches the eyeball, no

fisherman’s hook ever drawn back too far. The fears we have

of flames on the skin or bones crushed

under mallets. Though most accounts suggest some kind of

comfort, considering. The body goes limp, the mind

forgets, the pain isn’t what he

remembers, whose wife bludgeoned

his skull with machete, only—

the strange trail

of blood in his eye when he looks, wondering why

she sees him this way now, what the years

have done.

from play deadFind more by francine j. harris at the library

Copyright © 2016 francine j. harris
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.

by francine j. harris

I have walked with half a skull and I have walked

with a blanch shell. I have walked, legs

split hungry, and I have walked too old.

and my body bones around the middle.

and I sling open one eye to the white

whale of you, blowing up spittle and gorge

and chunks of barnacle hunkered

between two ankles where I have

inched close to a dribble, a crawl,

a hunkering over like a fat, black man, white chested,

carrying the fragile egg of us over weighted ice. I have walked

on thick toes, and you never said a word. I have walked

hands out of gloves, I have walked.

dragged sled with you slumped over in it.

and we have fallen on the ice. we have fallen

with our glass bottles of milk and boiled water

and our hands cut up. I have walked carrying roof siding

and wool bedding and fat. and I have walked carrying nails

between fingers, and I have walked with wood

and enough ocean floor to build you

small rooms where you could sit up straight.

I have walked, and you have watched me go.

you have watched me go and said nothing,

and you have said nothing and sat still, great egg.

from play deadFind more by francine j. harris at the library

Copyright © 2016 francine j. harris
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.

by francine j. harris

i.

I am sitting upright. at the height of your elbow.

You are hidden in green curtains and you want

the back of my hair. the place where it coils

around your knuckle. You position yourself, as

if there were any less clover in the light

through the curtains. It’s a strange pattern

across your eyelids. If I were older, I would

reach to shut them. I would say it’s okay, we

don’t ask. But now your face. Only the shrub

of heavy fabric covering the windows, or paint,

or sorrow in your fingertips, the grip of which

sits me. What girl could ever save

light at the tip of her fingers. I am, your

particular theory. There are no flowers. There is

no hard candy in your lap. But then

the man who brings this heavy lighting would also

bring cut-up dolls and switchblades. That would be

his uniform. I understand this. If I could speak

I would name the doll for you. call it a lily. a lilt.

call it some name other little girls might need. You

and I don’t need this. We have the color of stems.

We have the dark of this room. I am so much older

than three. I am your arbiter, here.

ii.

Outside me, this family keeps you.

Your mother stacks church fans in a curio.

Your sisters press another foster girl’s hair. The man,

who prefers you call him by name, has the eyes of a mole.

His glasses fatten the kitchen. He laughs at anything

anyone wants. If I were older I would tell you to dream

of cooking him. I would tell you that helps. I would tell

you to start with the eyes, scoop out the furtive sockets

together, and twist in rhythm

the lemon, rub

deep heat peppers under rib, but I am

small. My words are not spoons.

I will spend some years

asking boys to cut fingertips with me.

And they will say

what you would say, now. likely. This yank,

your fists in my hair

iii.

that which might ooze from the throat

of a doll I love. Her skin is leather and thick.

You can see the straw of her scalp.

You can still click her eyes shut and watch her

drip into the ruffles of a sundress.

The tangle, eventually. which dries

to a pine. an imperfect collar of

moss. that we will wear forever. that will bog

your body and keep it with me, the soot of which

tastes of dirt and worm. Now, it’s not. where

you sit, still growing over everything, at the nape

of my neck. And though I am small

I have said yes now. And wake

and wake and wake in the blown grass of light.

from play deadFind more by francine j. harris at the library

Copyright © 2016 francine j. harris
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.

by francine j. harris

i.

I carried a clit, in case.

in case it wasn’t rape.

in case the kiss was your lovely. in case, you suck a sore

bruise, too. in case you were steady. your hand was steady.

in case you could talk. I carried a clit, and a wrist in case—

in case I could rub away seam, and you could rinse hem, and we could

stand upright in tubs, muddy like a ledge. in case you could

hear. me, in case I could pick up both feet

on command, and carry through beds, and

keep my hair out of houses, in

and out of houses. in case the rooms full of

leaves and nightstands where

the drink is sweet. and a schoolyard out the

window, and in case the flagpoles

were empty. in case I could hear

sheets flap, like

a punch in the thigh.

ii.

One punches thigh open, another

writes script. pens

white gown and white banner and white sheet and white

cover and dove. and white birch. and parchment. and white

cinder and slab brick. white ash of punched cunt, white follicles

ripped.

and we were not winter. all dark and thick and full of mouth.

iii.

We were not wonder. all dark and thick. our mouths

got us kicked. you ask a princ-

ipal, a counselor, the man in the room. our mouths

got us running, soup water from se-

wers, and gentler weather keeps chicks. our mouths

got us full to black rim. to red blather, to-

ward trouble, a generous flight of stairs. our mouths

got us hissed ridiculous. you ask a sham-

an, his snake of women, his clavicle stick. our mouths

got us our bitter ass whipped, pick our own-

ers, our switches, our licks, our shut up. our shut up. our shut up.

from play deadFind more by francine j. harris at the library

Copyright © 2016 francine j. harris
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.

by francine j. harris

Because you were overweight and wore chains of turquoise

because you were my mother

because you were crazy at the time

because you hadn’t, you said, had sex in five years

because you were crazy at the time and because the pallor of your skin

was changing

because your daughter, my sister, stood head shaking while we held

your voice on the phone and because your daughter, my sister said you were

making it all up

because the room didn’t move when you came home and no one got you water

because you were crazy at the time and the woman becoming chameleon, skin jade and

bloated eyes before me was not my mother

because you were white

because it happened four doors down, if it happened, so you said

because I had played with his daughter as a young girl and once as a young girl I caved in

her stomach with my foot, she sank

because she called him Daddy the way not all little girls get to do

because you wore polyester flowers and because he was thick-moustached and drank dark rum

at his living room shag rug bar

because your husband didn’t kill him

because you wouldn’t let us call the police since you were crazy at the time and thought

they’d take you away, 3 a.m.

because they had taken you away before when you called the police on your husband,

my father

because you were overweight

because you called home several times that night to report

you were still o.k. and would be home as soon as he

let you leave

because your husband didn’t kill him

because I couldn’t see you over the phone

because over the years no one has said much when you bring it up

because my father didn’t kill him

because you were crazy at the time and because as it has happened over the years, I would not

react the same, react the same, would not react

because we knew his name

because you had been jealous of his wife, her mother, before she left him, the beverly, tall and

prance, rose-eyed and peppercorn about mahogany tulip mouth, because you

often accused my father of wanting her

because you cried

because I don’t remember you coming home that night

because Daddy didn’t kill

any of them

because it was easier not to.

from play deadFind more by francine j. harris at the library

Copyright © 2016 francine j. harris
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Alice James Books.