The Beginning 

Traverse the corners 
of my frightful damaged body 
see beyond the plague 
of my treacherous imagination 
My mind my transport buries me 
farther down the mountain slope almost 
touching nothing I drink smoke 
between my teeth 

It comes out of the water 
It comes out of sunlight 
It comes right before the night 
opens her mouth look here 
the door touches your leg 
And just before it closes 
you nurse your last wish 
of water of desert 
of clementine weather 
and sunny happy waves of trees 

If one does the job with nectar 
the sweetness floods the perimeter 
My mouth a plum a bonne a bruh 
a broken brother rent with parts sent 
the mescal smoked then choked 
the heat high-backed into highballed streets 
string a little drink of knowingness 
at my feet berries bark seeds peels 
mescaline poured between concrete 

These days I’m writing microscripts
where events seem closer at hand 
an avenue of forgetfulness brought me 
here stitched in place Cassandra says 
The evening rituals are mine breakfast rituals 
mine no one bothers with the teapot 
the water hisses 
assemble here the chorus

without you I’m nothing 
without you the plague rages on 
last supper all unraveled 
“Dried” (Beatrice) 
dry-aged 160-aged 
lavender French oak 
buried in lavender she’ll reappear 
in the second act 

Cassandra as a spokesperson 
she narrates the weather 
of a dust storm approaching 
that way — the poet can come 
and go as she pleases 
surviving exposure 
the death-ray (x-ray) 
What’s in brackets [         ] 
[is not] genuine

What’s in the desert 
invisible erasable remains of a cactus 
like a dead mouse 
weighted down 
the part of my body most 
connected to joy storming around 
a possibility in the distance 
in difference 

The sand crosses a dividing line 
boundary point a starting line a gun- 
shot in the distance a desert 
a door another desert 
tithe the tight circle 
it doesn’t belong here 
The aftermath of meaning the baby tells me 
In time the statement had become necessary

What sings is always divine 
There hadn’t been an answer 
I liked hearing 
so I wrote one I preferred 
and kept it secret 
It did its work 
as groundswell as music as cinematic 
encounter of the self 
it worked in other words

Then it sat silent 
which I also preferred 
times are tragic 
I had to read with a heavy book 
in my lap because it reminded 
me to stay still because it kept 
visible and invisible wounds 
visible and invisible words

Another desire is clarity 
the way to see the word in 
genuine steps blocks of print 
garlanded with laurel 
too much ceremony 
too much entrance 
not enough pointing offstage 
The poetry doesn’t mean 
much more anymore

if it ever really did 
perhaps it’s easier to remember 
overabundance magnificence joy 
in a reoccurring page of the novel 
more inclusive of unconnected thinking 
I’m a minimalist 
you’re a Baroque collagist 
perhaps rococo and rational?

Can I ask you a few questions? 
Can you see me? 
A dead woman 
disappears when her body is claimed 
Disappearance is not deadness 
One crab goes to heaven 
One crab goes into the soup 
Do you escape the code? 
“Nomads don’t move like migrants. 
Adventure begins in the same place.”

I share address, food, and my objects 
with you, isn’t this enough? 
Inhabitable space 
no neutral (space) zone 
Collapse the border that is all 
The book written right now is called Spectator 
It implies everyone 
and no one and not me you 

The veil appears 
only when I’m done listening 
Someone will boil a pot of water tonight 
When you add the smallest note 
to the margin it’s a gradual process 
of deportation 
I have led a double life 
twice repeated the notebook’s last line 

ξ

Catherine Theis is the author of MEDEA (Plays Inverse) and The Fraud of Good Sleep (Salt Modern Poets). Her forthcoming book, H.D.’s Dramatic Poetics, will be published by Dalkey Archive Press.