Poetry

 

 

Gretl Claggett

The Spiral Staircase

Of course, the danger lies within the house
but Helen, the film's heroine, is told
to stay behind bolted doors. Outside,
storm clouds eclipse starlight …
The town's suffered a series of murders,
the victims: slow, lame, blind or deaf.
Mute since childhood, Helen could be
next. As she climbs the main staircase
and stares into a mirror, the camera closes in
on an eye peering from a corner, and I
can't breathe when the point of view shifts
to the killer's perception: Helen's reflection
(as I've felt my own)—mouth erased.
But I keep returning to the spiral
staircase, the one with steep narrow steps
of wrought iron, the spiral staircase
where Helen confronts her killer and finally
screams. I keep returning and, at each turn,
face the child within, still
afraid to speak.

 

Father's Reel to Reel

plays whether he's in the room
or not: radio shows from
his childhood: Who knows what evil
lurks in the hearts of men …?
Alone on my parents' bed,
I watch the day's last light refract
through a crack in the window.
How old am I—eight, nine?
What did Father think when
he listened to this show? Did he
also already know how, in shadows,
favors are bought by those who
claim love? I have clouded
your mind so you cannot see …
Why doesn't he notice my
reluctance when his friend offers
to pick me up after school?
Why doesn't he question
the frequent gifts, the 16-carat
chain around my neck? I shut
my eyes and flee to a world where
all are protected. Then comes
the click. Footsteps. I pretend
to sleep. Before leaving,
Father covers me
with a blanket—threads
another tape.

 

Inside the Frame

Her desire to be there squares.
Costumed, she snaps
the top-sheet, tucks it
into hospital corners, fluffs pillows,
tightens her white
apron, then bends to smooth
one black stocking up, up,
up to the garter mid-thigh. Now
let him come, take her—
like a maid who speaks
no English, her silence
consent, his language
animal sounds. Let him tear
the apron strings and tie her hands
down. Let him unhook
her lips, unbutton her heart, un-
zip her hips. Yes, let him
thrust her into an ocean
of inner space, where all
"safewords" drown …
As this scene unfolds,
let her watch in the wall mirror:
the woman's mouth
round and ready to expose
some core truth held captive years
even from herself. Free
her—if only momentarily.

 

"Had, Having, and in Quest to Have"
—William Shakespeare

She reads the way she eats—on to the next phrase and the next
before digesting the first: paragraphs and chapters consumed—
often forgetting to breathe. As a child, she could recall
anything skimmed once, won a talent show reciting Sonnet 129
while inhaling shepherd's pie. Back then she never gained
a pound. Now, pants bind her thighs and—though she can't
remember much—she runs her eyes across the page, stuffing herself
with others' thoughts so she won't hear the ones lodged inside.
Prose is good for that. Poetry's got white space. Her ex-, the broker,
comfortable only counting cash, would say, "It's a waste! Get your
buck's worth. Buy books with lots of text. Especially nouns."
After the divorce she binged on self-help—Free Yourself from Fat
Forever and Right Plan, Wrong Man—until she met a photographer
obsessed with objects: "the smaller the better" so he could
push them around. She shrank to a size two, dieted on sushi
and haiku. But the words he spewed rotted like tomatoes and back
to fast food and the bookstore she ran. Today, bothered by her verb
choices, she packs her books into a cart and drags them downtown
to the Strand, only to be told, "We're not buying." Street-side,
she gives them away. A man grabs You Can't Afford the Luxury
of a Negative Thought, says, "Sweetie, I need this 'cause they pop up
like dandelions!" Once home, she skips supper, sits on her couch
and smiles at empty shelves. On her lap, the one kept: You Deserve
to Be Happy. She studies the title, vows to go slow, tasting each syllable.
Book closed, eyes open, she begins with the intransitive To Be …

 

 

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