behind teethby

emily brandt

Published by Full Court. Brooklyn, NYCopyright © 2014

htt p://fullcourtbooks.com/Edited by Matt L. Rohrer

Cover by Josh Evanshtt p://mrjoshevans.comLayout by Jacob I. Evans

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Deep Blue

I was one of those girls who used pliersto zip their fl ies. I had bad teethand ugly jeans, a hair dryer

blowing incessantly, a small dogsnapping at my ankles,my ankles tucked neatly into white socks.

I combed my hair, whirring in clouds of wind, with a sewing needle, some thread. I wove in blackberries

and blackbird feathers, and beaks, and Eric’s model ship,and butt ons from the butt on box,

and dollhouse tables, evena salt lick from the stableswhere I liked to lay in hay.

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Relic

My mother at the boardin the absence of a desk.

A birthday coming.She is ironing

moneyspraying starchand humming.

Mary of Lourdes on the silland coins.

She irons dailyin this shrine

she built

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from her closed mouth.

The room alit.Holy waterdousedon matchsti cks.

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Which Mary Are You Wearing?

I used to know them all:Lourdes, Medjugorje, Guadalupe, and all of the mysteries and all of the stati ons, all of it.

If I had a book, I know it would come back quickly, us lining up like pigeonson a wire to kiss Christ’s feet,

the priest wiping each mouth from the brass, and I’d think, Don’t watch me, and wipe my lips with my palms, then cover my face like my mother taught me. She used to cry in there, then go home, put whole cloves of garlic in the soup so they get soft as cake in your mouth. I plant my cloves in November and the bulbs are grown by June, blessed art thou, gleaming white under the dirt,the Lord is with thee,gleaming white under the dirt.

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Sweet Sixteen

I was a poplar gold leaves wobbling.

A lorrie loaded full with coal.

A swallow with swollen knuckles

my vocal chords pluckedand restrung. My hammers and gears didn’t chidein the way that I wanted and the want grew operati c and gastric.

My hair was fullwith cobwebs, maddening fi ngers that picked and combed.

I sat insideon mother’s couch, brushing namesfrom my hair, light passingthrough, stretching it tautswelling with storm.

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I thought it could be fi ne to die,stuck thick inthat solitary state.

Someone else will comb my cobwebs and cross my fi ngers gently.

The windowsill is lined with horsefl ies,their ti ny black legs bent toward the sun.

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Absence

Absence, she says, is like wind –not the way wind rushes into an open mouthblowing cheeks into fl eshy balloons,not the way wind rustles up sand into mounds at your feet – it puts a small fi re out.

Sunlight stripes windows left closed.She disti lls herself into the hum of electric air, leaving her solid adage on a trimmed tray, like a Honey-baked ham with pineapple rings.

This recipe, like her others, is writt en in blue ink on a card, three by fi ve, and fi led by lett er in a ti n box that opens. A locked jaw. Behind it, Icebox cake, Jell-o surprise, Lemon meringue pie,dozens of yellowed cards, a thousand ti mes read.

Absence, she says, is like wind –not the way wind goads the hem of your dress,not the way wind rustles white blossoms of dogwoods on lawns tended by tanned men – it kindles a large fl ame

but I’m sure she meant restless. In all her instructi ons,

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there isn’t a card that says this is when the cake is done, this is the moment the bread rises,this is the ti me it takes for icing to drizzleperfectly down the sides. These details she left to chance.

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I Stuff ed My Bra with Socks

I say I want to be her but I knowI want to touch her

and so I make myselfa mannequin.

The bee’s sti ngerinside the blonde hair etches lines of a map:

the way to the trail in the woods where the reeds went up in fl ame, and the neighborhood pools,

which water is warmestand which will sti ng your eyes.

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Kills and Cooks

My mama, she kills

and cooks meat in the pan. Some words shouldn’t be spoken – devil is the fi rst.

The birds are terrible. Their fat is a lie.She can peel

back the skin with her mouth shut.

Whore is the other.

The wings spread before the hammer,its blow cool and quiet.

She sings alleluia,mouthing syllables. She cuts the insides,makes me bite.

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A Key Tied to an Ankle

A sign painted dead whaleisn’t lying.

Take a closer look:the water is fi lthymom

fi lthydad. The water is fi lth.

Smells more like roadkill than fi shgutand no one carries a gun

not the cops or anyone. They eat sharks that swim

then sink like a stone at the menti onof your swing set disappearance

and reappearance as driver of the all-girls’ ice-cream truck.

We get to know each otherin strange ways these days.Come over.

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I’ve got nine Barbies and you can bring Han Soloand things will get good.I might wet the bed

but a good friend would never. Would just brush the crumbs out of the sheets.

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Diving into Ivy I was silent,my enti re body bitt en off . It’s not so easy to believe myself when I talk,when I wait ti l my tea gets cold to drink itand then shiver. 1 in 3 of you have stopped reading by now1 in 3 or 1 in 4, I don’t know anymore. I can countthe women I love who’vebeen raped: There arenames and placesand dates. I listenunti l I can’t. Not outside my kitchenor yours. Kitchens are the best, don’t you agree? Aren’t they vermouth?

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Aren’t they sugar? My mom can’t sleepplays solitaire at the table.I go downstairs and watch.Insomnia’s goodfor painters. I paintedin the night,just bored, justshivering. There are heartsand there are hearts. I hate when peoplecall it steakwhen it’s a cow. I hate when peoplecall it juicywhen it’s blood.

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Horoscope

Eric said, while stretching, pick up your hand and hold it up to the sun. See how much light shines through.

The light that doesn’t make it gets stuck somewhere in the front back or middle of your hand.

In the middle of your hand are all the states that have not yet been made United States of America which are most of the states in the world.

The Hawaiian language only has thirteen lett ers in its alphabet.

I suspect that a similar progression is in store for youin the coming year, Leo. I suspect that you’ll drop your hand

in the grass infested with anthillsand watch as they colonize it.

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Bedbugs Are People Too

It’s enough that she’s pregnant, but today Veronika comes in with a bedbug on her hoodie.

Elijah kills it. I scoop it up with an index card, pat her shoulder,

put the bug inside a school issued envelopebring it up to custodial

for confi rmati on from the authoriti esand Veronika and her sisters get sent home.

A lett er is copied, distributed schoolwide.It says bedbugs are harmless and do not spread disease and then, at nigh me they feed on human blood.

At three, I’m in the school kitchen, alone,in the dark, stripped down among the counters.

The fl oor is cold and clean, absorbs the sun’s gray.Down the hall a door opens and shuts like a valve.

Water runs through pipes, the heaters rush.

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I run my clothes through the dryer on high,

thirty minutes of crouching in skin, of massacring the invisible, the imagined.

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Emily

Well, it’s ti me for sleep again, bangthe pillow to my head.

I’ll call you three ti mes in the morningand send you sweet texts all day. Fill my thermoswith spiced tea. I’m here in the mirror just giving and giving. Slide

down your pants, the pillow.

Brush the greens out of my teeth.

*

A bathroom in Natalie’s old house sitti ng, both, tubbed.

June gulls fl ock. The window squawks.

*

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Emileeeeeee we’re going to lift you upwe’re going to lift you up. You’re lightas a feather.

*

Why does Augusti ne confess

to me?

*

May I become more free, more sti ll,

go beyond language

into heart failure,

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get back to the back back of the brainand turn the microphone on.

*

I like how you can look

at 9 x 9 and know

81! and never say the numbers

in your head.

*

Shadow work.

*

Gather around the white table. Aunt Bett y’s old thing.

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It’s so close to the stove.Who set up the American kitchenso we have to carry our food from fi re to table?A real problem

like the locks on the door

keeping me in and you all out.

Well, I’m disappointed by this:

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Bye Boy in memory of I.R.

Ralph saidwhile preparing for the state testMy friend shot himself in the headand I said When.

This was old newshad happened three years agobut he thought of it now while readinga passage about Ezrabringing Mrs. Scarlatti his special garlic souptwenty cloves of garlicand I wonderedif Ralph bought his weed from Elijahand if Ralph would show up for the Regentswhich he surely could passif he’s there.

I admit I was gladthat Elijah’s wakewas the night of my father’s partybecause I was nervous to go to a wake in East New York

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by myself for a boywho used to show up lateand say Sorry Miss and Yes Missand stash all his work in a binderon a shelf in the roomso he never had tocarry things home.I gave the binder to his motherwho couldn’t look at his namein his hand on the front.

When we readThe Catcher in the Ryewe listed out stereotypesof rich white peopleand Ralph said White peopleget the best weed.And then on a Friday Elijahgot shot in the back in Bed Stuy.Tasha heard the gunshot.I got the call the next morningand searched online for his name.

And aft er the fi nancesgot squared awayand the Crime Victi ms Unitand the Department of Educati onpaid up with checks

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for the burialwhich his family couldn’t aff ordfi ve of us crammed in a car

and rode.We sat an hourparked in the rainat the Cyprus Hills Cemeterywaiti ng for the procession.And then we fi ledup the small hillin the mudand the priest prayedand the women sangand the motherher hair in a plasti c baga bag over her dressshouted Bye Boyas the white casket loweredand she threw handfuls of mud.And we all threw a rose.

And I crossedElijah’s name off the att endance list in Englishand I crossedElijah’s name off the att endance list in Creati ve Writi ng

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but I didn’t crosshis name off the late log.

In the eveningin a room full of white womenand a few white menI wept on my yoga mat in shavasana.A stereotype.In the nighta student called meFat bitch and I screamedin her faceYou fucking cuntand woke up teeth clenchedand Eric rolled on his sideand slid his handin my underwear.

I pulled it outand fl ung his arm backthough I generally welcomehis palm in my sleep.

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Acknowledgements

I am grateful to the editors of the following publicati ons, in which these poems have appeared in various iterati ons:

The Atlas Review: “Bye Boy”Bodega: “A Key Tied to an Ankle”The Furnace Review: “Absence” Jellyfi sh: “Emily”Reconfi gurati ons: “Deep Blue” Tirage Monthly: “Which Mary Are You Wearing?”