Ghost Girl

by Amy Gerstler

  I say Kiss ye beasts while ye may.

  One witch caused all the cupboards,

  closets and drawers to spring open

  in the house of a woman who’d denied

  her food when she knocked,

  starving and weak, at the kitchen door.

  The witch put a toad in the woman’s shoe

  and

  Ha Ha

  next day she couldn’t walk.

  Riddle: what’s the difference

  between a recipe and a spell? Answer:

  They’re the same. Both have wicked intent.

  The heart is reached through the stomach.

  Your intestines are an undulating snake

  she croons to through your flesh.

  They hiss and spit and do her bidding.

  Soon your other eager organs follow suit.

  God gets jealous when eclipsed.

  Use nought but a wooden spoon

  to stir this brew. You who wish

  to gain revenge or affix a curse

  must find a tree your heart

  selects as its own, branches

  smooth as the limbs of a beloved

  younger brother. This invitation

  written in semen and ash—

  can’t we just reply in ink?

  Scald and muddle some onions. Braise

  a tourniquet. No, a tornado, I mean. Praise

  the swollen, seedy tomato. Scold the shy

  carrot, who thrusts his light underground.

  Bring me the contents of your father’s wallet.

  Or you can substitute a folded hare’s ear

  if you find his pockets so difficult to pick,

  you good for nothing, lazy girl!

  You have bewitched me, my darling.

  May I pet your horns, your tail?

  You smell like autumn bonfires.

  Afterward, the cradle rocked itself

  for hours, but since she’d cured

  the child’s fever, we kept quiet

  for a time. Leave me be, you fainty cowards!

  She charmed me so completely I would

  have done anything for her. Your soul

  is imperiled by your ties to this woman.

  At which speech the spirit did depart.

  After this period of deep thought, the root

  is sealed up in a jar with warm water

  and set in a dark place for 8 days.

  As she chants their names, one by one,

  the winter stars appear.

  SWISH

  A sweeping gesture, a sweeping defeat.

  The hills sweep greenly down to the river.

  Swept out to sea, swept off her feet.

  The wind swept clay tiles from the roof

  into the pool. Searchlights swept

  the valley all night. Blight swept Europe.

  The sweep of her hair made me weep

  all afternoon, till I was tired and ill.

  She made another silly, sweeping gesture

  that knocked the peonies to the floor,

  shattering grandma’s vase into tiny,

  teeth-sized pieces. Litter. Debris.

  The sweep of a machine gun. Terrible

  scenes that can’t be swept from memory

  so easily. He swept into the room,

  blowing smoke rings, snickering

  at some private bon mot. We swept

  the election. Broad sweeps of jasmine

  tremble at the forest’s edge. Come lie down

  with me on that rumpled shrub bed. The hem

  of your nightdress will sweep the wet leaves.

  THE ORACLE AT DELPHI, REINCARNATED AS A CONTEMPORARY ADOLESCENT GIRL

  I’m high most of the time on hallucinogenic fumes.

  Fumes pursue me, unfurling from the freezer

  as I creak open its vault-like door to sneak ice cream.

  Dizzying invisible gases leaked from my hello kitty backpack

  all through elementary school. They seep from under

  my bed at night like soporific fog. A species

  of ether rose from the skins of boys I french

  kissed at parties in junior high. (That’s nonsense about

  my needing to be a virgin to soothsay. Quite the contrary.)

  Anyway, boys’ male vapor gives me instructive whiffs

  of what they’re filled with: turbulent heroics, tinged

  with an ancient hunt-and-gather tang. Back in Greece,

  in that reeking temple, I was able to tell

  men’s fortunes just by the way they smelled.

  THE PASTRY CHEF’S DAUGHTER

  His only child, I was my father’s accomplice

  in the kitchen. He taught me to skin nuts, poach

  figs and plums, make cognac ice cream

  and chestnut puree, to crystallize violets. I miss

  his elegant cakes and soufflés, our breakfasts

  together before dawn, flour whitening his curly

  black hair prematurely. Mother succumbed

  before I was two. So I never really knew

  this pale slip of a girl I’d be shown in old,

  darkening photos, a floppy bow in her hair

  as though a butterfly had lighted there. Papa

  began as a convent cook. His desserts, a kind

  of heaven on earth, were so rich the nuns worried

  his coconut meringue and peanut butter fudge

  might be sinful. Later, Papa gave his pastries pious

  names to put the nuns at ease. When he opened

  his own bakery the names remained: Our Lady’s

  Crème Brûlée, Sermon on the Mount Whiskey

  Raisin Cake, Holy Ghost Biscotti. Papa once

  presented his nuns with a pumpkin mousse

  Tower of Babel in a shallow lake of vanilla

  crème anglaise, adorned with chocolate shavings.

  What an offering. I’d like to believe all our efforts

  in the world, however humble or exalted, are forms

  of prayer, like Papa’s worshipful, spirit-raising

  pastries. Who’s to say celestial insight can’t ride

  into the mind on a forkful of sour cherry pie?

  Those who have kissed a thousand sugary mouths

  or gloried in brioche glazed with apricot jam know

  the tongue can serve as the soul’s welcome mat.

  Perhaps we often miss hints of salvation when it enters

  us through the senses. A lick of lemon curd, a praline,

  a chocolate leaf . . . crumbs of love and belief.

  FUCK YOU POEM #45

  Fuck you in slang and conventional English.

  Fuck you in lost and neglected lingoes.

  Fuck you hungry and sated; faded, pock marked and defaced.

  Fuck you with orange rind, fennel and anchovy paste.

  Fuck you with rosemary and thyme, and fried green olives on the side.

  Fuck you humidly and icily.

  Fuck you farsightedly and blindly.

  Fuck you nude and draped in stolen finery.

  Fuck you while cells divide wildly and birds trill.

  Thank you for barring me from his bedside while he was ill.

  Fuck you puce and chartreuse.

  Fuck you postmodern and prehistoric.

  Fuck you under the influence of opium, codeine, laudanum and paregoric.

  Fuck every real and imagined country you fancied yourself princess of.

  Fuck you on feast days and fast days, below and above.

  Fuck you sleepless and shaking for nineteen nights running.

  Fuck you ugly and fuck you stunning.

  Fuck you shipwrecked on the barren island of your bed.

  Fuck you marching in lockstep in the ranks of the dead.

  Fuck you at low and high tide.

  And fuck you astride

  anyone who has the bad luck to fuck you, in dank hallways,

  bathrooms, or kitchens.

&nb
sp; Fuck you in gasps and whispered benedictions.

  And fuck these curses, however heartfelt and true,

  that bind me, till I forgive you, to you.

  LISTEN, LISTEN, LISTEN

  Must you pray so loud? Is your god hard of hearing?

  Each and every word should be pronounced in a manner that will ensure its purity of color and unmistakable identity.

  Even though he was speaking through a medium, I’d recognize my dead boy’s voice anywhere. He used his little nickname for me: spittoonia. It rhymes with petunia.

  “At the sound of your voice/heaven opens its portals to me.”

  Coyotes congregate on the horizon, keening. We greet the whitened bones of the eaten. We gnaw them down to mulch, to dust. Our duty is holy, holy, holy. Elephants hit rumbling notes far below the threshold of human hearing, bridging vast distances.

  It’s said our crooning even reaches those entombed in coma.

  The infant pickling in the jar of her womb picks up her mother’s humming. Thus they vibrate in unison a long time before meeting face to face.

  Anyone who faithfully follows the principles and practices given in this book will acquire a richer more resonant voice, and thus increase their power and influence in the world, to say nothing of their popularity and sex appeal.

  bleat grunt low cheep yelp trill hoot bay howl quack whicker snort yip ahem ladies and gentlemen . . .

  All languages are beautiful when spoken or sung in resonant, well-modulated tones. Thus do qualms, psalms and lust-bitten lyrics pour out of your mouth and moisten the dry world.

  That summer we had a contest to see who could make the most outlandish noises during sex but still not be overheard by the lumbering parents upstairs.

  My thoughts do stutter, lisp and simper when it comes to you.

  Boys and girls have vocal chords of about the same size until puberty. Then the voice box of the boys suddenly grows larger and their voices change. This shift has pillaged many a boy soprano’s life.

  Always attack a word with a loose breath and a wide-open throat.

  Whisper the following distinctly nine times: I uprooted the daffodils for sassing me back. She dreamed you kneeling. I write farcical odes based on the zodiac. He practices a toothless form of voodoo. Your genial deity is secretly a heel.

  Despite your unfortunate parentage I expect you to learn to perfect your consonants. Only then will you be accepted into polite society.

  I realized something was wrong when the voice teacher forbid me to wear a bra to my lessons. Once he unzipped my mother’s dress right in front of me. She just laughed and zipped it back up again.

  Orpheus’ severed head washed up on the shore of the island of Lesbos, still singing.

  Humpback whales may sing for up to 20 hours nonstop.

  It is not known why cats purr. Their production of this throbbing whir does not serve any discernable biological purpose.

  How could I fall in love with his speaking voice, all gravel and nasally twang? It sounded like burnt potatoes being scraped off the bottom of a baking pan, or chiselers drilling in a marble quarry. Yet back then, nothing was as erotic as hearing him gruffly order a burger, or clear his throat. Ah, and his donkey guffaw . . .

  Carefully pronounce the words soft cloth. Each vowel has its own savor and tang. Say Icy diamonds suffice. At least we can still warm and anoint each other with words when so much else has fallen away. Say What glorious pork! Say hideous police machine. Say dubious human future. Say Prove he is in the tomb.

  We received a botched phone call from a ghost late last night. He could not make himself understood above the crackling static. It sounded like the room he was in was on fire. He seemed to be saying My mental cutlery’s grown dull, I have lost the knack of speech; the waters of pure thought have closed over me . . . but that can’t be right.

  Put a cork in it, sister.

  The doll insulted me in a barely audible voice. Her words seemed squeezed from her molded plastic head, like icing extruded from a pastry bag. She had a mouth like a pinhole and used surprisingly salty language for a toy. Then she hauled off and hit me with her small useless hand, its fingers fused, digits indistinctly articulated. It didn’t hurt. In fact, I hardly felt the blow. Still, I threw her across the room to show her who was boss.

  The kitchen drain gargles its aria . . .

  Giraffes are silent. All that magnificent throat, the long purple tongue unfurling like a livid ribbon, and no voice at all.

  Say, now that I have you on the horn . . .

  There’s a theory that some women who’ve been victims of sexual abuse as little girls have high squeaky voices as adults. This is because they remain “stuck” in the childish register corresponding to the age at which the abuse occurred. Could such a thing be true? Can vocal development be arrested at the moment of trauma? Do their voices halt and wait to confront the assailant in tones he or she will recognize?

  In screaming or shouting all the muscles in the larynx are voluntarily contracted and tightened.

  One of the autistic boys who attended the afternoon session could sing the words to dozens of LPs’ worth of songs but could not speak. “Different parts of the brain are involved,” the supervising psychologist told me.

  You were such a wonderful singer. You seemed most glad of your life mid-song. I wish you could have bequeathed me your voice. I have a terrible, grating singing voice, and no sense of pitch. It’s like tadpoles and algae being pureed in an electric blender. Still, I love to sing. Since you died I have this dreadful feeling sometimes when I warble to myself that you are listening and cringing.

  If the eyes are the windows of the soul what is the voice? Its creaky drawbridge? Its dapper, garrulous ambassador? A smoky tasting moonshine it distills to inebriate unwitting listeners?

  “Don’t talk/put your head on my shoulder.”

  How can one successfully “put over” a song? Here are three simple hints.

  1. Wear tight clothes.

  2. Remember you are not really part of the frightful adult world.

  3. Worship the listener.

  As a teenager, Ella Fitzgerald, the “First Lady of Song,” possessor of one of the most gorgeous voices ever heard, had actually wanted to become a dancer, like Earl “Snakehips” Tucker, whom she admired.

  What does the bible say about the voice of the turtle? That it heralds the end of the world?

  BUDDHA SONNET 1

  Awake among sleepers, he knows

  the hypnotist’s loneliness. Robed in clusters

  of bubbles, skull cup in his right hand,

  he catches bitter milk that runs from

  the world’s wounds and drinks it down

  quickly. Curled in fetal sleep inside one egg

  among hundreds, a salamander hums as her cells

  multiply. The buddha simply whistles along.

  No surprise to find him in the garden tonight,

  up to his wrists in wet earth, among pistils

  and stamens, an intricate cloud pattern

  draping his loins. In the sky, bruised colors

  collide. Seeds disperse on the wind while

  snails mate in mud from yesterday’s rains.

  BUDDHA SONNET 2

  Everlasting flower, wipe the frosting

  off your lips and listen to me. Did you eat

  that whole wedding cake all by yourself? You

  cunning little thing. I hope you saved a sugar

  rose for me. Your archaic smile has set me ablaze.

  I can’t contain myself any longer. I’ll burst like

  a mattress that’s been used as a trampoline. I’ll

  erupt like your personal inferno, like the volcano

  that buried Pompeii after its citizens ignored

  years of rumbled warnings. Tonight the air’s

  full of murk, musk and strange strangled moans.

  Say you’ll be mine. I’ll dip my fingers in the moon’s

  bright saliva and paint syn
agogue windows, or chaos’

  names, like rings of kohl, around your riveting eyes.

  BUDDHA SONNET 3

  He had so much dirt under his nails

  I had to lay aside his rake and fuck him

  right there, beside the zinnias he’d been

  planting, our heads full of the scent

  of turned earth and the worms’

  choreography. Soil’s made of death

  mixed with perpetual foreplay, like a pond’s

  dark, teeming surface. If the buddha keeps

  his back to you, seduce him. Kiss his rough

  stone face, worn lips, calm nose. Make him

  go five days without sleep, till his mind’s

  a bleary mess, till his thoughts are sticky beads

  of moisture clinging to a rotting leaf, destined

  to live again and again, despite its misgivings.

  THE NEW DOG

  I.

  I’m intensely afraid of almost everything. Grocery bags, potted poinsettias, bunches of uprooted weeds wilting on a hot sidewalk, clothes hangers, deflated rubber balls, being looked in the eye, crutches, an overcoat tossed across the back of a chair (everybody knows empty overcoats house ghosts), children, doorways, music, human hands and the newspaper rustling as my owner, in striped pajamas, drinks coffee and turns its pages. He wants to find out whether there’ll be war in the mid-east this week. Afraid even of eating, if someone burps or clinks a glass with a fork, or if my owner turns the kitchen faucet on to wash his hands during my meal I go rigid with fear, my legs buckle, then I slink from the room. I pee copiously if my food bowl is placed on the floor before the other dogs’. I have to be served last or the natural order of things—in which every moment I am about to be sacrificed—(have my heart ripped from my chest by the priest wielding his stone knife or get run out of the pack by snarling, snapping alphas)—that most sacred hierarchy, that fated arrangement, the glue of the universe, will unstick. Then evolution will reverse itself, and life as we know it will subside entirely, until only the simplest animal forms remain—jellyish headless globs of cells, with only microscopic whips for legs and tails. Great swirling arms of gas will arm-wrestle for eons to win cosmic dominance. Starless, undifferentiated chaos will reign.