Brenda Shaughnessy

Moving Far Away

I hear they’re trying to make borders in water now,
to declare it a place, impose a shape,
dissolve the solvent.

It’s no solution to our probable problem:
I’ll never see you again, I say on my cell. Said
to myself. We’ll be well below alone now.

Can I be a good friend to you if I move so far away?
Haven’t seen you in years but I like a rough edge—
island broken off a big bully,

I’ll use up all my firewood on you.
Sorcery, what turned into me?
An iron foot, a leg of log. A wish for symmetry.

My fire handed down to me by cauldron witches
in their longish unauthorized youth—
broken crest rising,

rinsed of desire, full of pull and push no rush
to finish or to vanish. As if water didn’t wave,
and bring tidings,

and answer me like an animal
jealous, crushed, washing herself.
I’ll never forget you told me never to forget

but I did. Your voice a needle threaded
heading for my open wound,
already burned clean for a clean split.


*


The Impossible Lesbian Love Object(s)
—after Meret Oppenheim’s Object

1.
It’s just an object, it’s not me.
I’m more than an object, we are not having tea.

I am not one, not two. I am a feminist three.
I am Dada—not Mama, never will be.

When no one can use me, I am most free.

2.
I am not like other objects unaware
of themselves, those props subbing for desire:

the corner of the room thinks the room is one-cornered,
that cat sculpture staring as if with its eyes.

I, too, am a mammal stolen from my original sense of thirst.
Women know this disappearance from meaning.

Like all lesbian triptychs, I’ve stumbled.
Like all love objects, I am triangular, unstable.

I’m a lonely trio, a single setting, vexed
and passive, sexed and distracted.

A hot drink, a pot on the fire, the muscles
loosened, an inner stirring, a little spill,

the coat on the floor. The fur coat on the floor.
The curved fur floor atop another fur circle

to never catch a drop and a concave face
with convex back, swirling nothing.

None of it really happening.
I was once and always only ever an idea,

just a clever blip, a quip, a dare,
converted by coin and concept,

given body, shape, hair,
and an immortal uselessness

all art thinks it’s born with,
that women can’t get near.

3.
I’m beloved for being art’s best worst idea.
Famous for being impossible,

that’s why I’m obscene.
Not because everybody wants to fuck the cup,

not even the spoon can get it up.
Full frontal frottage, sapphic saucer,

a curving inside-outness, hairy leather hole.
Liquid’s skill is soaking, then getting sucked.

Seed’s luck is spilling, then being tilled.
It turns out we are having tea,

but it’s all so heavy with life-cycles
that even when you go light, with art,

to get a little air, the room’s still a bit dark.
And I’m repulsed, which attracts, in fact

the promise of warm fur is ancient,
will outlast the ritual fire and water

of tea for three, not two.
You see there’s me, and you, and we.

Pelts melt into a new body, not old.
We’re not thirsty—we’re not cold.

4.
I’m not just an object,
my surfaces servicing,
but I’m no more than myself.

I end at my edges, finish my points,
even if I bend your senses,
when I am this soft.

The spoon is small,
the cup, generous,
the saucer extra absorbent—

past story, beyond end,
like a certain kind
of woman I have been with,
and been.

Saeculum 1

I  MOVING FAR AWAY 3
Tell Our Mothers We Tell Ourselves the Story We Believe Is Ours 6
The Impossible Lesbian Love Object(s) 13
On The Shaded Line by Lauren Lovette 16
Who Sings Whose Songs? 18
On Loss of Feathers by Ursula von Rydingsvard 22
On Romeu, “My Deer” by Berlinde De Bruyckere 24
For the Matter to Mean and the Meaning Matter 27
The Artist Jessica Rankin 31
She Stands 34
The Poets Are Dying 36
Afterlife 37
Urv Predicts the Pres(id)ent 38
What Have I Done? 39

II  COURSEWORK 41

III  TANYA 53
I What are we if we stop
II “You”—my friend I made and lost, I did not write
III An old spark may stay true, if you want
IV If only humor weren’t so desperate
V Is there an empirical me ruling
VI I learned new hell on my own
VII If you scratch the surface of writing
VIII To fill a page to open a mind
IX Your need is yours, I’m not grateful
X “Ruin” is “I run”
XI That taught me to read other friends later: if they bailed
XII Locked in, every key sets two free

Acknowledgments 99