The Book of Goodbyes

Copyright © 2013 by Jillian Weise

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First Edition

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Publications by BOA Editions, Ltd.—a not-for-profit corporation under section 501 (c) (3) of the United States Internal Revenue Code—are made possible with funds from a variety of sources, including public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency; the Literature Program of the National Endowment for the Arts; the County of Monroe, NY; the Lannan Foundation for support of the Lannan Translations Selection Series; the Mary S. Mulligan Charitable Trust; the Rochester Area Community Foundation; the Arts & Cultural Council for Greater Rochester; the Steeple-Jack Fund; the Ames-Amzalak Memorial Trust in memory of Henry Ames, Semon Amzalak and Dan Amzalak; and contributions from many individuals nationwide. See Colophon on page 74 for special individual acknowledgments.

Cover Design: Sandy Knight

Cover Art: Matthew Woodson

Interior Design and Composition: Richard Foerster

Manufacturing: McNaughton & Gunn

BOA Logo: Mirko

Weise, Jillian Marie.

[Poems. Selections]

The book of goodbyes : poems / by Jillian Weise. — First edition.

ISBN 978-1-938160-14-1 (pbk) – ISBN 978-1-938160-15-8 (ebook)

I. Title.

PS3623.E432474C65 2013

813'.6—dc23

One

1. Up Late and Likewise
   
2. The Ugly Law
   
3. Decent Recipe for Tilapia
   
4. I've Been Waiting All Night
   
5. Café Loop
   
6. How to Treat Flowers
   
7. Affairs
   
8. Poem for His Girl
   

Intermission

1. Tiny and Courageous Finches
   
2. Go On High Ship
   
3. Marcel Addresses Kate (As He Would If He Could)
   

Two

1. Why I No Longer Skype
   
2. Portrait of Big Logos
   
3. Once I thought I was going to die in the desert without knowing who I was
   
4. Semi Semi Dash
   
5. Poem for His Ex
   
6. Goodbyes
   
7. For Big Logos, in Hopes He Will Write Poems Again
   
8. Be Not Far From Me
   

Curtain Call

1. Elegy for Zahra Baker
   

• Notes
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• About the Author
  
• Colophon
  

It never stopped raining when I was with him

and we were wet and there were parties.

He was from another decade. It was honest.

With some you can never tell but with him

I could. My decade let the POWs come home.

What did your decade do? The thing about him is

he keeps being the thing. You could never

count on him. I did. It never stopped raining

and I could, it was honest, tell.

Would you like to be in the same decade with me?

Would you like to be caught dead with me?

Any person who is diseased, maimed, mutilated or

can I continue reading this? Will it affect my psyche

so that the next time Big Logos comes over

I will not be there in the room? Instead I will be

wandering a Chicago street in my dress with my

parasol as a cane, on the verge of arrest, where arrest

could mean “stopping” or “to keep the mind fixed

on a subject,” where the subject is the diseased,

maimed, mutilated self of 19
^th
c. Chicago, the self

in any way deformed so as to be unsightly

and will I tell him to stop looking, tell him I'm tired

and I'm about to be arrested for walking in public

and I can't possibly climax when I am
an improper

person
who is not
allowed in or on the streets,

highways, thoroughfares or
will he say we're alone,

no one is watching, there is your bedside table

and there your mirror and who am I kidding?

I won't tell him anything. There is no room

in bed for this. It does no good to bring things up

from the 19
^th
c. or from last week when the things

have to do with—how do I say it—what is the word

I usually use? Last week I said it like this:

“Big Logos, a moth came out from hiding

as soon as I had taken my leg off and the moth

said, ‘Ha little cripple. Now you can't get me

with the broom.'” Then I laughed so he would

know it's okay to laugh. I do it like a joke.

I do it like it's nothing. Why the cover-up?

Why are the laws stacked with it and I never

in high school heard of it?
The maimed shall not

therein or thereon expose himself or herself

to public view under penalty of
staring,

pointing, whispers, aphorisms such as “We are all disabled”

or “What a pretty face you have” or “God gives

and God takes away” or
one dollar for each offense
.

One dollar in 1881 is like $20 today. I wanted to compare it

to something like dinner at Ruby Tuesday or a bra

on sale at Victoria's Secret, as if by comparing

the amount to something I have bought, I would buy

the penalty out. Then the penalty and all its horror

would be gone instead of arrested, kept in mind,

dwelled on when Big Logos comes over or forget him

when I am in the supermarket or forget the supermarket

when I am in front of twenty-four legs in a classroom

or forget the classroom when I am on the couch

watching TV: how will I not think of the woman

in Chicago trying to hide her limp, her thoughts

on her limp, trying not to bring it up, draw attention to it,

or what will happen if she is caught by the constable?

On the conviction of any person for a violation

of this section, if it shall seem proper and just,

the fine provided for may be suspended for
130 years

until a person enters “cripple” in the search engine

on Project Muse because a person has no cripple friends

and has started to think cripples don't exist

and never did and finds the law. Why have I posted

the ordinance on the mirror and why have I traded

the lube in the bedside table for a twenty dollar bill?

What's that supposed to do? Help the history slide in?

Help me remember?
Such a person will be detained

at the police station, where he shall be well

in the company of criminals, concrete and moths

and a small window to the forbidden street
cared for,

until he can be committed to the county poor house.

I am not poor. I am not even unsightly. What a pretty face

I have I've been told. Big Logos, will you attest

to my sightliness? Is this all in the past? Why are you

sleeping with me, anyway? Aren't you afraid?

Tell your back home friends it means nothing

and you will drop him as soon as you have

friends in the city. If you had more friends,

you would not sleep with him. If not him,

who would share your Tilapia? No beloved meal

begins, “Alone before a plate of fish . . .”

Find your market. “Are you single?” the man

behind the counter asks. What to think?

For meals, you are inside a couple.

From inside the couple, you have someone

to call while standing in line. “Does your

girlfriend know?” you must never ask.

Instead, “So many fish and which?”

The laws of attraction are this: There are

no laws of attraction. A person likes

a person. Both parties like each other

and in each other enjoy being liked.

Baste the fish in lemon and butter.

They say it takes time to meet people.

Do you agree? Sleep with your friend.

Disagree? Cut him off. Put it in the oven.

I reckon you were asleep with your girl

before the phone rang. Make something up.

I've been waiting all night to tell you

about the couple in post-War France,

the woman fresh in her grave

and the man who didn't like his mistress dead,

no sir, and so exhumed her, to the dismay

of his wife, who had him arrested

for the stink he made.

She was reburied, returned to the dead.

After jail, he dug her up to fuck again.

Attached suction cups and crafted

a wig from a broom. You can go now.

I'm more in the mood than you're used to.

She's had it easy, you know. I knew her

from FSU, back before she was disabled.

I mean she was disabled but she didn't

write like it. Did she talk like it?

Do you know what it is exactly?

She used to wear these long dresses

to cover it up. She had a poem

in
The Atlantic
. Yes, I'll take water.

Me too. With a slice of lemon.

It must be nice to have
The Atlantic
.

Oh, she's had it easy all right.

She should come out and state

the disability. She actually is very

dishonest. I met her once at AWP.

Tiny thing. Limps a little. I mean not

really noticeable. What will you have?

I can't decide. How can she write

like she's writing for the whole group?

I mean really. It's kind of disgusting.

It's kind of offensive. It's kind of

a commodification of the subaltern

identity. Should we have wine?

Let's have something light. It makes

you wonder how she lives with herself.

I wouldn't mind. I would commodify

and run. She's had it easy.

I can't stand political poetry.

She never writes about it critically.

If it really concerns her, she should

just write an article or something.

I heard she's not that smart. My friend

was in class with her and he said

actually she's not that smart.

I believe it. I mean the kind of language

she uses, so simple, elementary.

My friend said she actually believes

her poems have speakers. Oh, that's rich.

I'm sorry but if the book is called

amputee
and you're an
amputee

then you are the speaker.

So New Criticism. Really I don't like

her work at all. I find it lacking.