mary biddinger

What We Do But Don’t Know

I used you to identify bodies

of water. Drowning was a trick

only you could avoid. You said:

Water isn’t like trees. The rings

have nothing to do with years.

That made me beg for gills

sliced into the sides of my neck.

We both wanted a different way

to function. You couldn’t help

craving the underside of anything

that could act as an accomplice.

You would swallow a fist for them.

I thought taste was endangered

by such hunger, how afterward

the sting outlives the liquor. 

But I’ve never been hit. I mean

hit hard enough to clutch it under

the chin for hours. Weeks to follow.

You knew the lack of experience

suited me like brass knuckles.

You suited me like an army canteen.

If I were to empty myself out, I’d

flood your abandoned crawlspaces.

When you empty yourself out

you puzzle together an insurgency.

One that almost pleads for a stoning.

Hostility Guidelines

When hostilities unfold around me,

I hyperventilate to the point of seizure.

Seizure to the point of hysteria, mopping

myself across checkerboard floors, abandoned

stairwells. Force feed myself hummus, falafel,

humble myself with a rolled-up newspaper, enter

into seclusion, practice autoerotic asphyxiation.

My head feels clearer, the day feels longer.

When hostilities around me erupt and unfold,

I search for someone to love me, disturb me.

Tooth the necks of lust-busy chambermaids,

call them sugarcakes, dollface. Tell them I will

never seduce them with wilted gardenias.

I’m at high risk for the diabetic coma,

a bum leg, lupus, it runs on my mother’s side.

The grim news. Every time they tell me I’m dying

I place collect phone calls to all my family. They fail,

without exception, to accept the charges. I fail

to collect myself, accept calls from unlisted numbers.

When I erupt into hostilities, I do most of my talking

with my hands, my inscrutable thumbs. Send letters

to my loved ones. Never apply adequate postage.

john gallaher