Rae Armantrout

1 “must represent the governess for, of course, the creature itself could not inspire such terror.” staring at me fixedly, no trace of recognition. “when the window opened of its own accord. In the big walnut tree were six or seven wolves ... strained attention. They were white.” (The fear of cloudy skies.) like strangers! After five years Misgiving. Misdoubt. 2 (The fear that one is dreaming.) The moon was shining, suddenly everything around me appeared (The fear of) unfamiliar. Wild vista inside or near the home. (Dread of bearing a monster.) If I failed to overlook the torn cushions, three teapots side by side, strewn towels, socks, papers— both foreign and stale. 3 when I saw the frame was rotten, crumbling away from the glass, in spots, in other places still attached with huge globs of putty. The doctor forced me to repeat the word. Chimera. Cold feet. scared and unreal looking at buildings. The thin Victorians with scaly paint, their flimsy backporches linked by skeletal stairways. 4 After five years (The fear that you are not at home.) I was sitting in the alcove where I never sit when I noticed a single eye, crudely drawn in pencil, in a corner near the floor. The paint was blistering— beneath it I saw white. 5 Sparrows settle on the sagging wires. (Fear of sights not turned to words.) Horrific. Grisly. “Rumplestiltskin!” Not my expression. Not my net of veins beneath thin skin. (A morbid dread of throbbing.) Of its own accord

In English we place a noun meaning fixed purpose before our verbs to create the future tense. Here, in the private life my team invents, I’m in a floodlit kitchen like the set of an old-time ad for Tide and I am chopping something. Isn’t this the past perfect? Should I feel nostalgic? This corn is highly leveraged and I’m wearing a pink slip.

Card in pew pocket announces, “I am here.” I made only one statement because of a bad winter. Grease is the word; grease is the way I am feeling. Real life emergencies or flubbing behind the scenes. As a child, I was abandoned in a story made of trees. Here’s the small gasp of this clearing come “upon” “again”

The doll told me to exist. It said, “Hypnotize yourself.” It said time would be transfixed. * Now the optimist sees an oak shiver and a girl whiz by on a bicycle with a sense of pleasurable suspense. She budgets herself with leafy prestidigitation. I too am a segmentalist. * But I’ve dropped more than an armful of groceries or books downstairs into a train station. An acquaintance says she colors her hair so people will help her when this happens. To refute her argument, I must wake up and remember my hair’s already dyed. * As a mentalist, I must suffer lapses then repeat myself in a blind trial. I must write punchlines only I can hear and only after I’ve passed on

Where there’s smoke there are mirrors and a dry ice machine, industrial quality fans. If I’ve learned anything about the present moment • But who doesn’t love a flame, the way one leaps into being full-fledged, then leans over to chat • Already the light is retrospective, sourceless, is losing itself though the trees are clearly limned.

1 What do we like best about ourselves? Our inability to be content. We might see this restlessness as a chip not yet cashed in. 2 You appear because you’re lonely maybe. You would not say that. You come to tell me you’re saving money by cooking for yourself. You’ve figured out what units you’ll need to exchange for units if you intend I know I mustn’t interrupt 3 Hectic and flexible, flames are ideal new bodies for us!

1 These guys try to make us match moods to products the way once, under love’s spell, we attached meaning to sound, attached sounds to objects. The old magic won’t work now, but it’s nice to be reminded of it. 2 She’s a tease, tears her skirts off one by one. Really? Drops her petals as if she could always make more. It’s tiresome. We know what she looks like naked. On a cold night, we can see forever.

Once we liked the conspicuous but constrained, the push-up bra under the shirt-waist, a small bow at the throat, the appearance of a struggle toward the diminutive, the punctum. • The slender second hand jerking forward as if helpless, making its same sound. • We might stand in a thicket where a battle had taken place and be thrilled by the far-off roar of traffic

Suffer as in allow. List as in want. Listless as in transcending desire, or not rising to greet it. To list is to lean, dangerously, to one side. Have you forgotten? Spent as in exhausted.

They’re sexy because they’re needy, which degrades them. They’re sexy because they don’t need you. They’re sexy because they pretend not to need you, but they’re lying, which degrades them. They’re beneath you and it’s hot. They’re across the border, rhymes with dancer— they don’t need to understand. They’re content to be (not mean), which degrades them and is sweet. They want to be the thing-in-itself and the thing-for-you— Miss Thing— but can’t. They want to be you, but can’t, which is so hot.