Swimming at Sportsplex: February Mental Sky

by Dana Roeser — Fri, 12 Dec 2014 08:01:32 +0000

“What’s water but the generated soul?”
William Butler Yeats

The soul was taken
by surprise, plunging
into that glassed-
in pool in February,
dysthymic, hyperthymic,
sex-crazed, hypomanic,
money-throwing,
neurasthenic
soul
rattling in its
cage, in its
blankets and heaters
and down
quilts, wrapped in
layers of flannel
and wool, wearing socks,
a fleece hat.
It plunged into
the pool
under the cold dripping
roof, the mauve
sky walling it in,
making it echo,
hit its edge
against the air’s
steel wool, mohair.
Like the last stage,
batting around
in this daytime
twilight,
ricocheting off
the glass wall.
I can find
it in a pan
of water. It drips
from the roof
as in a hot house,
the world
of exotic flowers
steaming,
their grave, erotic
faces frozen
open. … Bird striking
a glass enclosure,
wall of slate
falling back down.
First
you take the walkway
from the other building,
flaps of plastic on
either side,
freezing concrete
on your bare feet,
the stiff glass door. In
the cold, soft
air, it doesn’t
want to get
its feet wet, its
body either, without
its glasses, the world
is smeared
with Vaseline, the
air is
gray, the water
blue-gray,
the children hardly
visible,
have to hold the little one
tight,
up and down the pool,
wiggle
wiggle the legs,
it’s cold,
the black cloth of your
swimsuit getting wetter
and wetter, taking
on water.
This is the soul’s
element;
this is what
you carry with you.

The post Swimming at Sportsplex: February Mental Sky appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

Asthma in Summer: Family Vacation at Virginia Beach

by Dana Roeser — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 08:01:54 +0000

        The oppressive night
like a blanket. Layers
        of wetness on
my bronchial tubes, my
        limbs; my
husband’s body
        on top of me. I
want to walk out, to the bay,
        the ocean, to a
mountain, to a place of
        stars.
                 In my dream,
men keep women’s
        selves,
women’s souls, in
        little jars along
the mantel, and it makes it so
        much easier. Then
the women hold the broom,
        the fork, but
not the knife. At Kokoro,
        the Japanese chef
tosses it in the air—and
        catches it.
                 My children.
The sticking point.
        I remember their
babyhoods in this little
        house. Each cried to
be let into my bed. Tonight,
        the older one came
to sleep with me. Her
        sunburn hurt. I held
her hand, then gripped
        my rosary, praying.
How will I sleep? Wanting
        to walk out
as I do, the dinners,
        the nights out,
the purple pedicure. These will
        prevent the questions.

Where does the energy
        come from? The
longest earthworm, five feet, in
        Australia, may be
energized by alluvial ooze. But
        who knows how long
it languishes under there
        waiting for a
sea change, a change in
        the upper weather
so it can come out, move
        under the sky? A
woman found it. She dug
        for a year. She
knew it was down
        there.
                 Dinners, lunches,
clothes, cappuccinos. Search
        if you want, but don’t
find it. … I gasp for air. I
        search for that
hard, bright thing at
        night. Walking
the dog, I see my stooped
        shadow in the
streetlight—so
        like my father’s.
Or jogging
        in daylight—the
hat, the lurching legs. I drive
        up to a gas station—
what a relief, a
        long blue sign with
white letters, “Self”—available
        at the pumps. Little
selves, little yellow-winged
        souls, fly around, close
enough to pull from
        the air. I rest
there, holding the nozzle,
        guiding it into
the gas tank, the hole.

The post Asthma in Summer: Family Vacation at Virginia Beach appeared first on Zócalo Public Square.

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Swimming at Sportsplex: February Mental Sky

Asthma in Summer: Family Vacation at Virginia Beach