{"id":4688,"date":"2006-04-05T12:23:38","date_gmt":"2006-04-05T16:23:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=4688"},"modified":"2015-05-20T10:22:18","modified_gmt":"2015-05-20T14:22:18","slug":"suzanne-wises-subjunctive","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=4688","title":{"rendered":"Suzanne Wise’s Subjunctive"},"content":{"rendered":"

In honor of National Poetry Month <\/a>…<\/p>\n

Thought I’d post a poem by Suzanne Wise. I’ll maybe post more of my favorite poems later today.<\/p>\n

But this one poem – by Suzanne Wise – just left me completely gobsmacked, I remember, when I first read it. I can’t even really imagine myself back into that mindset, or what it was that SO spoke to me here – but I know just where I was, and what I was doing, and what my life was like when I first read it. The doppelganger introduced me to Suzanne Wise.<\/p>\n

I love this poem.<\/p>\n

Lunchtime in the Kingdom of the Subjunctive<\/b>
\nby Suzanne Wise<\/i><\/p>\n

A spoon propels itself out of its soup
\nas a bone sprung free of skin<\/p>\n

or a tuning fork
\ntrembling into the background,<\/p>\n

then arcing and returning
\nas a boomerang.<\/p>\n

Meanwhile, the glass of milk glides up and out
\nof your hand, quietly streaking a gloss<\/p>\n

of stars through your suddenly glowing hair.
\nMeanwhile, toast combusts in a golden dust.<\/p>\n

Butter drops from clouds that release an ochre rain.
\nYou grow misty-eyed, nostalgic.<\/p>\n

This feeling is alleviated by a sense of dread
\nand instability as the tabletop turns metallic,<\/p>\n

tips and revolves as a chain-saw blade
\nslicing the floor into windows<\/p>\n

you slowly and gracefully crash through.
\nSplintered glass sequins your skin.<\/p>\n

Your hands reaching for the doorknob
\nsharpen to cones. The door soars.<\/p>\n

Your legs run too fast, lose their feet
\nto curls of smoke drifting up the stairs.<\/p>\n

You spend hours, or possibly years, floating around like this\u0097
\nlight-headed, fuzzy-brained,<\/p>\n

cotton-mouthed. You have fallen in love
\nwith the way light refracts in impossible ways.<\/p>\n

Later darkness barges in horizontally,<\/p>\n

It is night without shadows
\nand everything is way too shallow.<\/p>\n

You are too close to the picture
\nto see if you’re included.<\/p>\n

You fall headfirst down the drain
\nsucking the bright out of colors.<\/p>\n

You become somber, colder, a kind of high-quality vinyl,
\nand, in some places, an old damp velvet.<\/p>\n

Meanwhile your head continues to plummet,
\nhas become a potholed highway<\/p>\n

splitting into stalks, going to seed
\nas you talk yourself into the distance.<\/p>\n

You are telling yourself: Do not be afraid.
\nYou are begging: God help me.<\/p>\n

You are whining: If only<\/p>\n

If only I had some kind of anchor
\nin here. If only I could disappear.<\/p>\n

You know you should be ashamed.
\nThis is the kind of compulsive behavior<\/p>\n

you are always being criticized for.
\nIt’s that soup bowl,
\nand singing, sparkling like a god and spitting
\nits empty refrain in the faces of all your best selves:<\/p>\n

If only ______, then ______.
\nIf only ______, then ______.<\/p>\n

\n