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or,The Whale

Sherry Robbins

[books]

Buffalo, New York

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or, The Whale by Sherry Robbins

Copyright 2010

Published by BlazeVOX [books]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproducedwithout the publishers written permission, except for briefquotations in reviews.

Printed in the United States of America

Book design by Geoffrey Gatza

First EditionISBN: 9781935402329Library of Congress Control Number 2010926422

BlazeVOX [books]303 Bedford AveBuffalo, NY 14216

Editor@blazevox.org

\

BlazeVOX [ books ]blazevox.org

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ETYMOLOGY

(Supplied by a late great-grandfather's dictionary, used inhis chiropractic office)

[Nothing of him to see but the odd flower or coin hidden in the greatbook's crotch between colored plates of all the gay flags of the known

nations of the world.]

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EXTRACTS

(Supplied by generations of unsplintered hearts)

Lets go down to Sears and look at the boys,Geneva Donnelly, 1961

I hope you have ten girls just like you,

Dorothy Robbins, various occasions, 1957-1967

They all pick their noses and think theyre kings,Anna Farber, 4th grade

Im out of books,All of the above

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or,

The Whale

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Loomings

Call me irresponsible.At work a desk litteredwith yellow PleaseReturn CallUrgent slips.Drawers at homejammed withunopened bills.Dear friends,their needs

(their needs? their names!)sometimes elude me.

Who ain't a slave? Tell me that.

I can't knockhats off. No onewears them anymore.Can't bring up

the rear of funerals,death grown so privateand curtailed.Fish-laced oceanair curls inunder the door jambsnevertheless.Something fishy.Something salty.

Infecting mewith the vague dis-ease that Ishmaelknew so welland I am allof a sudden allat seain this town, this time.

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Carpet Bag

We cold-climate womenwho have assiduouslyavoided wealthknow enoughto wander southwhen we can'ttake it anymore.

Would not Lazarus ratherbe in Sumatra than here?

The odd thing isthat we wandernorth againall out of seasoncontralogically.

Magnetized,attracted to what

will surely bethe death of us,we pass bywindows glowingwith cozy TV warmth.The hut we head foris an edge of townthing. No signoutside of anything

inviting.

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The Spouter Inn

Driving through darkest

Pennsylvania, Saturdaynight. There are nolights in the houses.No one goes pastthirty-five. Whatis it about this state?

It is a blasted heath.

The kids are hungrybut the only placewe've seen open askedWho Cares?in no-color neon, a martiniglass falling from its questionmark, and we drive on.Somebody lied about 219.It is not the most

direct route to the oldestmountain in America.

Dark slouching humpof a hill impaledon the windshield wipersoccludes the long view.We drive into it endlessly,hungry for our dumpling

dinner, our shared bed.

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20

The Counterpane

These savages have an innatesense of delicacy, say what you will.

First light. First color.Grandma's quilt,the one made from our oldcowboy and Indian pjs,her house dresses, aprons.I lie under generationsof genetic code this morningwith a strange brown arm

flung across my neck.I smell her before I see her,a family smell refreshedby the wild truffle scentof a young girl. I knowshe came out of memore intimate than any spouseand yet she is unknown.Pinned, claimedby her small arm,I have no claim on her.She is a stranger, strangeas that summer solsticeI lay awake alone all nightpicking at mystery,resisting the urge to kneel,when, just before day, a dentin the quilt, a pushing downat the foot of the bed,a weight not waitingfor me to open up,not needing to, as everyawe-stunned atommade an O.These are not mortal weddings.They have no linear logic,no witnesses.Unless you, across the way,

have been keeping watchthrough the windowall these years.

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21

Breakfast

Last nightit was kind of funnyto tune in theWorld Seriesand find insteadshaken sportscastersfalling againand again inthe retellingtoward the crack

in Mother Earth.

This morning thoughwe stab at our oatmealin silence as bodyafter body is pulledfrom beneath stone orsteel on the small screen.Rare meat.

Some woman,red in tooth and claw,hunkers down beside usto break her fast.This is a journeyI would put off takingif I could.

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The Street

Everyone in this townknows it was builton water and whatthat water carried grain and lumber and power west to east. Mansionsstand on that history,parks and avenuesfan out from it likeFrenchmen on parade.

The only thingsthat flow through noware themselves liquid:words, drink, hallucinations.Still, Buffalo is a queer place.Our pride perversely swellswith each loss.You can hardly find us

on a map now.You can hardly hear us,though wild-eyed prophetsand refugees from aroundthe globe show up dailyas if in answer to a call.And we give off a musk hereour sweethearts smellwhen they are far from home

that guides them back again.Like Salem, you might thinkthis place more myththan city, but we have long sinceceased to know the difference.You can hardly see usif you're not from here,we grow so translucent.

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The Chapel

Color sound texture temperatureshape flavor fragrance attractionpressure memory dream song breath

All these thingsare not without their meaning.

There is deathin this businessof the corporeal chapel.

There is birth.And all things in between.Take this body if you want it,eat it up.Or come insideto sit a minutequietly.Every kind of prayersticks to its walls.

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The Pulpit

There is a shapein the stomachwhen a body fallsoff the end of the watery world.A shape to the way it swims back uptoward distorted light.Mother, father,pack up their pastfor the future in this way.A leaf falls.

Moss twirls on stone.Stars reel apart.Soup stirs.Hope fades.Bees crawl down to their queenthis way.

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The Sermon

Sometime during grade schoolthe drone from the frontof the room pinnedhot legs understicky deskswhile our green thoughtsflew out the window.Tell the truthsing the green bird thoughtsfrom the green leaves.

Tell the truth. No moredisembodied songs.