Begin, Beware---
I.
---Invocation---
Begin sinister.
Sincerity like a fairy tale, some treacle
laced
fatal with arsenic's false almond, but begin.
Yes, tell us
Once
there was a boy who loved a story so much
he walked through the page,
tell us how There was white, rooms incendiary
without shadow,
and
even if you ask How can you understand
how it was, the others
calling
him back, even if you give us How
the simple loop of O was a noose
ready to choke, I a knife that splits,
don't think we don't
know
already. Here, memory's every Once & Once
& Once
we ever heard---time's upon itself until
the self's a strange,
a second person. Ruthless : museless :
first person's worst
inversion,
a witch isn't bitch enough to do you justice.
When you tell us His lips were perfect
of diction, how, Outside,
the words sat black like birds, hooked
beak and claw deep in glass,
all
along we've known On the other side the
other child waited,
the bad brother, how The others sent
him to fetch the boy back.
And when he says, "Dear Brother come,
you've lost your name;
you
must be cold without it," tell us everything
the bad one
wants, spare us nothing we don't already
know, tell us
and your voice will alter with telling,
gnarl and knot
like
bark : beware : a scar's the shape a song
takes;
any such singing leaves its mark. Yes, it's
true The boy knew a name
is the largest bird, eyes cut cruel
as obsidian, knew a name is hungry,
a
carrion keeper, but you will anyway,
won't you, croon
the catastrophic lyric, cream it, diva the
infernal tessituras,
because it's aria, it's yours, opera written
for the burning
stage,
& ah---you have to : this pit's literal.
This is Hell :
a tale's told & here remains forever. As
if a teller's guilt
weren't punishment enough, when the bad
one whispers,
"Don't
pretend you've forgotten how we slept tight
as spoons, our skin
fit over the bones of our name," when
he says, "You must be hungry;
please, step closer : I've something
for you," implore us, Oh Reader,
a
plum, and give us Its color deep
as the throat's hum and plush, show
us
how His hand reached through the glass---and
beware. We suffer forever
how our stories begin---
---In the
Library of the Fairy Tale,
there's
one the folklorists
catalog under the key-word brothers.
In the Thematic Index
of Folk-Lore & Fairy Tale---the
limbo where stories go---
the scholar's virtuosity is compression
: figuration, essence,
all the blood and doves of Schwarzwald
gone. No raconteur
could stand it---extra-ordinary companions
are b.; disenchantment
by sewing shirt for enchanted b.;
magic object stolen by b.; b. having
extra-ordinary skill---all the etceteras
& excesses of oral tradition
pared to suggestion, fragment. You thought
you might not
find your story after all in the Teller's
Book, the entries sick
with benignities, all the awful plucky
brothers playing nice-
nice, the blackbirds let loose from their
blackbird pies…
But in someone's hand the wicked history
is recorded---
b. chosen rather than husband; lecherous
b.---perhaps an Archivist
of Harm, Indexer of Punishable Husbandry
(old Latin story,
incestus, "impure" : kiss stanched
black as bad teeth, thrill
a vermilion risen at the root of the mouth,
nervy as rills
& licks
mockingbirds
sing
as
shadows swing
beneath
the meat
in
the gallows---tree),
&
in what untraveled
backwater did he first hear the tale? In
what sticky kitchen did he
listen as an old bachelor smoked, told
the one that begins Once
upon a time, a brother loved his brother,
the sorrow of all beginning :
impossible for a scholar to ascribe origin
or author; no matter
how he came to learn it, the teller can
only say, Sir, it's always been
a
borrowed song.
---The Milk-Father
Once a young
husband for a year grew restless
beside his wife & each night he left their
bed
no one could say where he went. & when did
it
begin, children saying a wolf without howl
lived
in the wood, midnight bade stolen boys drink
from a row of swollen, hairless teats? Boys
grow old
fast in these parts, mothers said,
and witness-
less, the man famished the mouths of cradles,
milktooth and fatherbreast, false beast
he took
the boys to him & together bred a fable.
Perhaps
he envied what light hit upon their sleeping;
maybe
he thought a bodiless love best, unskinned
& sinless wanted to thin & glimmer like
a god,
to danae and ganymede the boys with gilt
& gold;
& o to finally gift with light the walls
of his own
boy's room---the sorrow of all beginning---
& by which midnight gibbous did his pulse
well up, his mind struggle, tug a crucial
remove
from image the way fresh milk's skimmed
of skin :
tremulous
to see his boy lit up like that, cock's
curve of warm
carved wax, ah---white, white, to leave
himself
to that candor, that motherless suckling
: what milk
there was was stanch, was salt, perhaps
was love
after all, if the boy had believed a god
above him, if
a man could live with a vision, divinity,
& also touch it.
Hereafter, the story solely hearsay---by
his own hand
his own boy hurt, dead & buried in the wood.
Soon
rumor followed (suicide) & their double
ghosts forever
kept confined to pine forest : sad, uncanny
boy shadowed
by a dog he fears. This was a county in
Alabama where
all your life a dead boy slept among the
pines, unbroken
miles where older boys built lean---tos;
come summer
Sundays, they'd stash porn mags, jack---off
into yellowy rags.
Outside, your older brother's among their
guns, parallel
barrels leaned into slant light : you were
a body unnumbered
among them, unoriginal gunmetal, safety
still ever-latched.
Afternoons, self unsignifying, you gathered
the burst
blue bouquets of jays the boys left miles
behind, buried
the rusted buckshot of their eyes, though
the lice stunned
among blood & spine & split quills terrified
as evening crept
down from the trees & the forest thickened
its apparitions :
licks of white skin flickered between far-off
branches, strips
lit up shirtless, fluorescent, silent as
boys slipped quick between trunks in black
pantomime of catch-as-catch-can : oldest
among them, your brother, not a boy at all,
shouldered his gun
like a hunter looking to hurry you home---to
him kneeling
outside the bathroom door, whispering outside
the bedroom
door, all the locks you turn not keeping
his voice outside, all
the doors you lock not keeping him from
picking the locks, him
kneeling beside the bed & not keeping his
voice outside you
kneeling not keeping his body outside you
so that somewhere
you're a child forever closing a door,
a child forever turning
a lock---& down beneath kudzu you dug &
hid & god willing
even god would never find you : all your
life the dead boy
meanwhile slept : evidence : it was said
among them in those parts
a
child can know too much : can die.
[
Floating Poem
The Dead Boy to the Scholars
in
the Library of the Fairy Tale :
"At
the edge of the glade
where
flanks of felled deer fade,
there
I lie, defy description, lush
dun,
antique sepia, husk, my tongue
the
cusp of damage vanishing,
&
I would touch now nothing
but
you, evidence as I am
of
imagination's end in the flesh.
You
will have to sing. Paper
won't
hold the wound I leave---" ]
II.
---The Tutelary Forest
Dear Reader
:
Like
a child beware & enter here beneath what
branches, what waits, what watches : in
the Library of the Fairy Tale a book opens
to a story many more brave than you have
entered, & you are in it, you are here to
learn, to die, & this is how a witch gets
business.
Even
though the Good Woodsman cuts the heart
from a boor instead, even though to the
Queen he brings it still hot in a mahogany
box, she asked for yours. Any path leads
to the Wolf, the Witch, the house or cottage
where what waits is patient & sharp. Already,
the Wolf wears the Old Woman's nightgown---his
teeth white as the insides of the whitest
thighs, ah---that is what paths are for,
& patience.
Bracken,
bramble, thorn, thin scratched skin, this
is Schwarzwald, a drop of blood enough to
scent the wind : the Queen knows her rival
isn't dead. Thrice before you sleep a hundred
years, bearing gifts she knocks at the cottage
door : poor universal virgin, you eat the
apple & sleep; prick your finger & sleep;
& of luck we shall not speak because you
can't fuck just anyone---"It's meant to
be!" the Lucky Prince says when he stumbles
upon the hothouse box, glass coffin your
early bloom burns inside.
Begin,
beware, will nothing save you? : in search
of a place to sleep, you discover the cottage
where you lie down between the white thighs
of teeth & so deeply no Good Woodsman can
find you. In search of sleep?---a comb,
a corset, an apple. Of sleep you discover
the enchanted house, & the Witch, what she
does best : hungrily. Either your life's
her tithe, or there's a catch : a curse,
a choice : before you answer,
remember
: She would have your heart out, & eat it
too. As deep calls to deep, she asked for
it by name.
---In the
Library of the Fairy Tale,
they
would be stupid children who asked why
their
parents have left them in the forest, why
their
mothers hate them, their fathers haunt
their
bedsteads. Here, no one in danger waits
for
salvation. Here, what hungers is lovely
cruel,
is gore & gorgeous & godless. It knows
spots
quickest to goad blood to bruise,
the
gasp & spasm & green of smothering.
How
good it is, how easy, in the forest,
where
you know what waits for you
adores
the horror & minutiae : small bones
shattered,
the slim rim of the iris in dilation.
How
good, too, to know the story will forgive
you
should you kill first, as when the child
goads
the Witch over the trick lip of hunger
into
the furnace of her own voice & is right
to
do so---how good!, how easy to act
when
you know your actions will be right.
It
was your doubt made your brother lucky :
you
would have preferred to destroy him.
---The Aviary Hour
In memory,
in the fairy tales read to you before bedtime,
sleep
slowly creeps into every story though rosebushes
fan & flare
powdery matchsticks around the tower where
even sleep's
sleeping & only a man can bless the ending---a
kiss---& begin
again :
In
memory, the fairy tale of bedtimes, the
air
of the house you dreamt in drew beneath
itself its thousand
black wings & shivered, brief scintillas
of its million quills brilliant.
Amid feathery livery, the Prince of the
aviary glistened : beak, claw,
wing & jaw---weaponry---the air his parliament,
his imagination---
blackbird, jackdaw, rook & crow---jury
& jurisdiction of his law
& him impotent still amid it all : your
mouth his one sure dream
of sleep. There was no tale in which it
had appeared, porcelain
thin---lipped sugar---bowl, a rose at the
bottom : your tongue the petal
placed to sweeten the prize. There was no
prior pattern to prepare
you : the stricken Prince didn't travel
far from his Kingdom; fulfilled
no impossible tasks to gauge his worth;
overcame no obstacles
to arrive black famine at the garden of
your sleep, O child, listen :
begin again :
In
memory, in the fairy tale of the wedding
bed,
outside the chamber where even sleep was
sleeping, feathers gathered
in a crush of air---it was the nightmare
of the Aviary Hour, clockless
abyss where time was a song kept choked
in the throats of carrion
birds. There were no witnesses, the others
dreaming in the sleep
you all slept : curse of Fathers, of Mothers
: family a locked cage
of relation, children bred beneath a pestilent
heaven. Your souls'
malaise of stars wept pin---holes of light
in an orrery under glass.
In memory, the Aviary Hour, the Prince knelt
like any husband
outside the door, like any entitled by law
turned the knob, entered
you : once & once & once he put himself
inside you until it was dying
to be a body & still it didn't end : a kiss
& the birds that were metaphors
undressed themselves & stepped pale from
vast black nacre raiments
& were boys, white skin flickering shirtless
between branches catch-
as-catch-can, the forest forever this time
because at last he'd come
back, shouldering his gun like a Father---Look,
dead
boy, did you think
he'd forget you? This is Hell. A tale's
told & here remains forever kept
confined to pine forest : listen : down
beneath kudzu you dug & hid & god
willing it was the end & still it didn't
: this is how death became the body
of a man : down in the dirt his own boy
hurt : he buried him inside you
& turned the earth so you couldn't even
choose let it end god be done
with me : the butt of his gun come down
the one sure mercy you could see.
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