Cathexis Northwest Press

© 2018 

  • Facebook
Oil Can; Self-Portrait as an AK-47; September 11, 2008
Oil Can

 

Various necklaces found or thrown in a recycling bin,

the garbage disposal, the community dump:

what most people remember.

 

The word “oil” pronounced like oww, a shriek.

 

 

I think about my mother forgetting how to drive, 

my father coaching her on the phone:

Tell her about the dog you saw on the walk

Tell her about the rain

Tell her about losing your keys on the walk

 

Behind the curtain, he whispers, “You can 

send her a sweater. You can send her candy.”

I misplaced my courage, my temper.

Old green velvet, stained, the nap stiff.

 

Christmas lights and vacuum tubes found or lost: 

what most people are.

(Maybe an eye missing

or an eye for a thimble.)

 

An absent front tooth.

Ten years ago she mailed me all her rings; 

she thought she was dying.

She called and the messages said,

Silver or gold, do you …like, which one.

 

The phone is a creature I regret touching.

I imagine myself inside a hard drive 

or as a machine, steam powered with shuddering red coal --

maybe missing a button.

Self-Portrait as an AK-47 

 

A trumpet.  The crunch of an animal chewing through 

my father’s plastic bag. I ask the squirrels about the rain 

 

while they skitter left. Right. A piano, a snare drum.  A canvas 

the size of a small car.  My mouth is the mouth of an animal. 

 

My father’s cards mark the infected. Urine, a daffodil. In this 

painting, I am a doll with one arm pointing.  Click of the furnace,

 

a subtle roar. The emerging ears of a blue bear. My father’s five 

orange pills: what I swallow each morning.  My father’s porcupine 

 

noses my wet oatmeal. Brushes undoing, redoing. The ears emerge 

from my skull. My hair is my father’s, yellow. In this painting, one

 

eye is blacked out.  I am under my father’s clouds and pink, dripping. 

Bubble-gum ice cream, sloshing on my flip-flops. Cold and soft. A sun 

 

hammering. My father’s gummy bits, red circles.  I am blue, pointing. 

A trumpet, a cello. The bellies of the squirrels hanging in the branches 

 

outside my window, white, my father’s. I am unable to find my indoor 

voice. My throat filled with my father’s petals/pills. Brass horns and a woman 

 

singing. I am dimensionless, outlined in black. Next to me float black curls, 

grenades. My father’s trumpet, a black mouth.  A warning in the strangely 

 

colored clouds. I don’t look at you. I look away. 

Piano, then horn. The sky an unreal blue. 

September 11, 2008

                            (After Damien Hirst)

 

Ribcages bristling with butterflies. 

A windowless white room.

A two-story hand bears plastic 

 

flowers that cannot find a home.

A flatbed drives the hand down 

avenues, looking for a lawn 

 

to fall in love with or a basketball 

court, or a small, man-made lake.

Wind rattles a sign loose.  How 

 

can everything be so ordinary?

Two Toyotas yell at each other in the street.

A skull covered with diamonds,

 

swaddled and swaddled with bubble

wrap. A receptionist misspells 

the country, reverses the shipping 

 

information, the last name of the man. 

How you flashed as you fell, how others 

took pictures or looked away.

Christine Hamm lives and teaches in New Jersey. She recently edited an anthology of creative works inspired by Sylvia Plath and she has been published in Denver Quarterly, Nat Brut, Painted Bride Quarterly and many others. She has published six chapbooks, and several books -- her fourth, Girl into Fox, came out in 2019.