selections from LIP     

Eastern Washington University Press, 2009     

by Kathy Fagan     

 

 

ONTOLOGY AND THE PLATYPUS

 

So which mammalian fuck-up list produced
the platypus, produced the bird-billed, flat-foot, erstwhile
beavers dressed like ducks for Halloween?
Crepuscular and nipple-less,
they suckle hatchlings in the changeling dusk—

Diaphanously the god-swan boned
a married chick and she begot two eggs,
neither good. The launching of a thousand ships ensued.
Homer never saw a platypus,
though in his dreams he may have heard them growl,
a noise between a gurgle and a hiss.
The males are venomous. A plural
form of platypus does not exist.

 

 

NOSTOPHOBIA

 

Because rosehips swell redly on
   the canes of the climbers
      you tied back with twine
         to four nails rusted
            in the silver green siding,
      I fear.
Because mud rut in the alley,
   all gravel, wisteria, lame
      dog, and dryer sheet.
Because red barn twist-falling
   like the shot cowboy in a melodrama,
      and the mellow drama of autumn
         with its strata of maple leaves
            that could bury a man
               with a rake and his boots on.
Because the frost,
      I fear,
         earth heaving like my chest
            that time.
Because Hades is, evidently, filled
   with china, none of it matched,
      and the night air breeds bats
         that slip in on the breeze
            and the day air, a cardinal’s song
               I’m bound to forget the words to.
Because the thirty two windows tall enough to walk through,
   their glazier dead a hundred years,
      I fear.
Because the five windows of average size.
Because of all eight doors, three chimneys,
   their carpenter and mason.
Because not a line is level
   or an angle true.
Because no two measurements are equal.
Because, if it rolls, it will roll on those floors,
   the oak floors with their intricate knowledge
      of geometry, astronomy, entomology;
            and the oak doors with their transoms,
               the oak banister trained to my hand,
                  coffin turn at the top.
Because, among its many severities, its levity:
   the mantels’ codpiece medallions,
      staircase finial coming off in your hand
         like a Christmas movie,
            the Eat-Me Drink-Me radiators,
               a basement missing
                  and the superfluous door that isn’t,
                     knob turning and turning and turning.
Because it took, likewise, a comic genius
   to hang a ship’s chandelier
      in the galley dining room
         of a landlocked house.
Because sewing needles between the floorboards,
   small vines climbing
      the wallpaper.
Because alphabet and box fans.
Because the pink. Because the blue.
Because the acorn rains and the petal snows.
Because the old woman
   who is always talking
      tells the old man
         who is never listening,
            I visited the old house today.
Because their children’s children.
Because their marbles, cirrus clouds
   caught inside.
Because in the future,
   in my memory,
      these rooms shall live
         a great deal longer than I shall live,
      I fear.
Because the stench of black walnut,
   the lilac that never bloomed
      and the forsythia that did,
         the peonies and roses
            pink and red against the silver green siding
               we painted ourselves
                  in the color we had to have
Because of its name, which was Solitary.

 

 

SALOON PANTOUM

 

Tell me if you’ve heard this one before:
Guy walks into a bar with a duck down his pants,
Says, One for me and one for my friend here.
Barkeep says, That’s no friend, that’s my wife.

Guy walks into a bar with a duck down his pants.
A priest, a rabbi, and a minister
Say, Barkeep, that’s no duck, that’s proof
Of the existence of God.

A priest, a rabbi, and a minister
Put together can’t tell one good joke.
God knows this
But He cannot forgive them for it.

Wherever two or more are gathered in a joke,
There is love, He says. We hear this
But we cannot forgive Him for it.
Suddenly, crashing through the saloon doors,

There is love. And just as He’d said, we know it
By its blonde hair and dead babies.
Suddenly, crashing through the saloon doors,
What’s black and white and re(a)d all over.

By its blonde hair and dead babies,
He says, Barkeep, thou shalt know thy duck.
What’s black and white comes crashing through the door.
Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

 

 

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