CATHERINE THEIS
PARADISE
SAUNA
1.
I bump
my elbow hard
on
the fount of pleasure.
Brilliant
porcelain, the letter-gram,
the musical enclosure,
the
delicacy of fingers
and Wagnerian excess.
The
sweat runs down my back.
I lift
my arms in mock salute.
Stones with leaden eyes.
The
pine-wood perfume.
In
love with water,
I break in water.
2.
Into
the river I stagger,
looking
for the original,
my intentions
inky and animated.
I spoke
about you
in
my interview
in the guise of James
Merrill because you’re part
of my
outright strangeness.
The
committee smiled at my hair.
They
touched my Neptunian pearls,
blue-gray in evening.
The
gray wool 60s suit pressed the night before.
The
reeds swayed in the moonlight.
I felt
Fellini’s hand brush my skirt.
3.
The
ride home, uneventful.
Polluted
riverbanks carrying cow
and
insects, sticks burr-ripped into black.
I stripped off the wool
for a black leotard.
I
felt my spirit
uplifted
by hard work,
the
concentration of spirit-water,
alcohol
distilled
from plain water.
The car pulsed with air—
the aqueducts
hiding
perverts and sex offenders.
Lucite
skin, my sister’s face
shone
as her own.
Insects
grew wings.
4.
Wild
with sadness, with longing,
I
am wide with loss.
I am lost
in
the small openings
of my vision.
Is that
a feather? Tin or aluminum.
A man-made
bird blind
unheated in winter
gives no water,
nothing shared,
but
the turkey struts
in the leafy bush,
allowing us the pleasure.
5.
Fighting
before dinner and then
fighting afterwards, why
when
a greater wing of bats whistle-sweep
the trees above our heads, lovely going,
herbs de Provence
perfume our hands
in lavender,
the possibility that our whole bodies
might
be perfumed by work—
a small tart with a savory crust.
And
after that, trespasses with the feet, it never stops,
discharge
of rushing stream,
never the same spot twice.
The
pot of boiling water steaming up
the pantry window, if I cook, you clean?
If you clean, I cook?
Never the same spot twice—
the rocks gleam.
6.
Purified
by a long matchstick, the pile is
relit.
The pile burns
in smokestack, smokesense,
toking the sense of the difficult.
Pile
it on, see what I see: Tight-tipped,
the
radiators close in heat, excess water
wringed from rags
drops
of alcohol
fall
on your cheek
though I care for you
the
way my mother would, her hand
replacing
my hat— a reservoir of goodwill
unvarnished opinions
put
out of joint, displaced
luxury and mourning in the same cup
is the bat living bloody in your nose.
7.
What’s
already a tradition—
a cherry
tree in relief, and barking dogs
skinny
with the knowledge of prairie.
8.
Many
flocks of loving sheep.
Many, many flocks
of loving sheep.
Like Merrill
I
slept in Ravenna alone
leaving
my boyfriend in London.
Strands
of horsehair
placed
on Dante’s tomb.
9.
My friend,
my amulet, my new melody farewell.
Dancing
in piles of cloth
that
won’t even last ten washings,
the
connection festooned
with fabled smoke,
often
tall brogan from bounty mecca.
Don’t
be afraid of things because they are easy.
10.
Your
clothes are wet, my hands are cold, cold
fish
bones lodged in my throat.
Plunge
bath, sauna, sauna bath, hummum, hot tub, Turkish
bath,
Finnish
bath, Jacuzzi, Russian bath,
Japanese bath, Scandinavian steam bath,
annihilation bath. Bereavement bath.
Steam bath, sweat bath, steam room,
whirlpool.
Tomb of water. Afterlife.
Eternal rest. Paradise.
I like this life, oblivion
the same thousands of years ago.