The Brooklyn Rail

Two Poems from The Ginny Suite

I’m holding a baby, saying shh-shh-shh, shh-shh-shh.
I’m writing this
on a piece of gum, it’s a poem
about tunnels and how going through them
means you change
by the other side’s time. Kim asks, “like birth?”

All of the sisters speak at least two languages, some
I’ve never heard before. Skylark for example
is the language of heavenly bodies, such as the moon.
Stars speak to us, the words can be read
through a telescope. They dictate the way we feel the faces
of celestial orbs. “Deeply expressive,” says Kim.
Kylie speaks Olde English. Kendall can sign.

I’m not sure who this baby belongs to but
I’m getting good at holding it. So good
the blonde with the drinking problem keeps asking
for my number. I’m married and don’t want kids but if you
wanna fool around sometime, I’m down. You can teach me
the Amharic alphabet and proof my poem
on the linkage between subway tunnels
and change. Or rather fear. Or was it death.

“Help me…help me…” I hear a faint voice.
An older woman.
Arms reaching up.
Screws and wires either side of her head. Torso
white and bloodless.
I notice trout tentacles instead of fingers.
Her chest covered with thick blue hair.
“Where am I?” I hold my head and cry. “What on earth?
Why are you hanging here with your dozens
of mutations?” The screaming gets bigger as I go
deeper. Mysterious agencies are trying
to make me a soldier, I fear. I look
a little further, and I fear, I fear…