UpOver The BodyJacqueline O’Rourke

Copyright © 2009 by Jacqueline O’RourkeAll rights reserved.

ISBN: X-13-47-99921

Printed on Mowhawk Via Vellum Cream White paperBook design by Fitch Qatar

In gratitudeTo my mother

Bernadette McGrath O’Rourke

How

could

this

be?

That frogs spew w

ater from fi

ctional n

oses and

all I see is

you?

My eyes freez

e th

e same sc

enes t

he F

uher m

ust

have seen

so m

any years ago

Frogs with

noses of w

ater and

elep

hant

s with

ivory t

usks

on alte

rnating pane

ls of blu

e, green

, red and gold

Cano

pies hang

ing gracefully on

chains

Latt

iced m

etal

holding

it all back

East and

West

have c

ollapsed into

a t

ourist

site

How

could

this

be?

That since

you le

ft h

istory has no

gravit

y for me?

The blo

od run

s back

wards in

my veins

The ne

edle

on m

y co

mpass steadily and

aimles

sly fl

utters

Earth

runs

direct

ionless bene

ath

my feet

Up

Over

the

Body

I sit in

lobbie

s like th

is on

eSt

amped

with

the iro

ny o

f time

I am t

old I

am seeing what

Alex

ander must

have seen

under th

e flamboyant

Egypt

ian sun

I retrace

a glad

iator’s foo

tsteps

And

leaping into

his

cage

How

l int

o an empt

y co

liseum

I breathle

ssly

hunt

Eric

the R

ed

Moc

k th

e mum

my of R

amses

and

stand

under Ro

meo and

Juliet’s balc

ony

cursing all

of t

hem for t

heir

vanity

Unable

to

different

iate betw

een

history and fic

tion

I stumble

dutifu

lly like a panicked Hajar

weeping

over th

e los

t foot

steps of proph

ets

swaddle

my son

in t

ears

drink imaginary waters

and

gaze

num

bly o

nto

a gold

covered kabah

What

I d

o remem

ber

Is ho

w I

rem

ember yo

u no

wIn

a foreign

city

You ne

ver saw o

r cared about

That h

as n

othing

And

everyth

ing

To d

o with

you

In

a room

tho

usands o

f ot

hers h

ave sle

pt in

Where I

have no

thing and everything

to

do w

ith

others

I rem

ember ho

w t

he skin

scaled

on

your forearm

sTh

e spec

ks o

f yellow in

your eyes

Your voice

on

late Se

ptem

ber air

Your w

arm smell und

er t

he c

overs in M

arch

And

Your sig

h

An

eagle

A w

inged

lion

Ready to

soar above th

e inane

Your sigh

Summarized t

he p

ast

bett

er t

han

any historian

ever co

uld

Up

Over

The

Body

That’s w

here you t

old us to

ling

er

I h

ave been

wingless t

oo lo

ng, mot

her

Ground

ed and

magne

tize

d by gravit

y A B

eliever in

Event

s.

Up

Over

My

Body

Is where h

istory is

wait

ing to

be kn

own

and named

How

could

this

be?

That h

ere

Where I

kno

w you n

ever w

ere

I m

iss you m

ost?

Your loss is likeAn empty hammock in fallStill swinging in the breezeWith the memory of your bodyArms hanging languidly Sustaining the sway

The icy waters of a lakeBlue and bottomlessIn early NovemberToo early to receive the scars of skatesToo late to receive the brown bodies of childrenWaiting for another season

The trail of an airplaneIn a blue cloudless skyFlimsy and lastingLeaving behind an alphabet that makes no sense Ingested and chewed After the sound has gone

Absence

o

Rivers She watches the riverFlowing backwards and forwardsGreen, grey, purpleblue spirals of now

A single gunshotBurning putrid across place

A girl Crouched in a cornerDry eyedEyes wide openTo greet the piercing of air

The river ran through it

A boyBound in darknessStone eyedEyes wide openTo greet the stench of error

The river ran through it

Be it EuphratesOr nameless water starved creeksAll begin and end somewhereEven Lethe, with all its blessings of forgetfulness, led to Hades.

Fish Eye The mood ring on her sister’s fingerThe bumble bee in her shoeHer grandmother’s comb digging the scalp of her tangled hairThe rusty nail through her footThe open legged fall on the red banana bikeThe heaviness on her chest under a weight she could not break

Her AngerWordless and flamboyant

The codfishSacrificed to prideDancing its rage against deathOn salt beaten wood

She reached out her fingerTouched its open eyeAnd pushed

The soft surrender of tissue to muscleThe prick of the gurgling bubble of privacyThe membrane of fish eye just under her nails

I woke upTo findThat everything was breakingFragments of dishes retuning to dust in the kitchenWater freezing itself on ceilings and floorsWindow panes cracking into sandWooden doors shredding and half open

For a minuteI was disassembledConsidered calling a plumberA carpenterA glassblowerAn exorcistA guruA philosopherA poetA prophetA child

But thenI crawled back into my placentaAnd watched my lover sleepingHis breath in fierce whirlwindsInside my womb

Falling in love

I once made a manOut of piecesOf cloth.

Stitching him togetherOver long yearsWith threads of disillusionmentAnd needles of despair.

A masterful artistI was.

Cross stitchingDouble crossingAnd ignoring missed loops.

So full of my masterFull of what he would beCould beIf I could wear him like a cloak

PiecesThenOne colddayWhen I had thrown him over shouldersHe came undone.

Starting with oneSimple threadHe UnraveledHimself.And left me Uncloaked.

Raised spider veinsSpindle outwardsUnder the surface of youLike leaves of a red mapleCracking under the autumnal touch of me

Freckled bicepsballed and hardeningUnder the surface of youLike full pouches in a fat hamsters mouthTingling under the icicled taste of me

Rise of bone in knees and elbowsIntruding on symmetryUnder the surface of youLike loose rocks in a mountain streamRoaring under the vernal whisper of me

Inhaled breathDiffusing through chestUnder the surface of youLike a maddened light loving mothCircling the midsummer shadow of me

Vein MuscleBoneAnd breathNumb from seasons of desireIn an exoskeleton worthy of worship

Exoskeleton

I onceknew a man who could lose his skin

S(K)IN

When I met him he was deep maroon,the color of ripe cherries, a small hard core and tangent fleshiness.

But when I trusted him, he turned an apricot yellow, translucent and gritty.

When I loved him he was a citrus, sometimes sweet as mandarin and sometimes as tangy as lemon, in shades of orange and yellow and greenish unhappiness,with a under layer of whitish words that I could peelif I had patience

But when I last saw him he had turned plum purple, seeping pulp from the center

I wonder what skin he now lives insideNow that the seasons of his country don’t change anymoreAnd the harvest is delayed indefinitely?

Crystalline lover,liquid vowelshave no effecton you,freezing into consonantsclipped and claustrophobicwhen they are poured over you.

Amorphous lover,fluid rhythmshave no effect on you,vaporizing and tricklingdown your glass panesin rivulets of neglect.

The fact of the matter isthat your matter

isstateless,

unboundby the molecules of belongingostracized intothe atoms of an outcast.

The matter to be stated isthat your stateismatterless,melting out of empires and kingdoms,scooped up with the spoons of scoundrels

and condensed into a State of forgetfulness.

Stateless LoverIn the state of this affairWhat does it matter?

State

of Ma

tter

With silver slipperson hands and feet crawl the path of the moon on the waterwhite jasmine buds in your pocketsand loneliness tucked behind your ear

No primary colors hereall silvers and purplesgreys charcoals

Discrete

No need to keep reminding me of who we areno need for your history lessons and political treatisesits only you and mein black and whitecrawling the path of the moon on water

Do you hear the water under the glass?

In a few hours it will be daylightand blues and greensreds and aquasWill assault us

In this onslaught of daylightwe will standandSink

Discrete

She walks heavy and begrudgingSteps suspended between minutesBetween motion and memoryUp the stairs in the house she was born

Her body naked and motionless under an equatorial moonReceiving skin drawn over bone and muscleShe feels his tears on her neckWith his words crumpledShe asked him to leave

The Fat Woman with Beautiful Hair and her Lovers

Halfway up the stairs she pauses to feel the flesh that has replaced herIndented, vein marked and bruisedEverything downward

Her eyes wide open meet his panicked and forgiving faceOn a soundless winter night that engraved lines onto ice caked windowpanesHis love took away her passionWithout even a photographShe asked him to leave

She reaches the top of the stairs and peers into herself in the mirrorEven her eyelids are fatShuttered pinholes in skinObscuring her vision

Her feet motionless stumps in sandWith an overwhelming beigeness surrounding herIn the cool water of his anger And his love enough for the two of themShe left

Equatorial moonSilent winter iceDesert dawnYou have left no marks upon her

There is no mistaking itThere it isIn the mirrorThe defiant bounceShe still has beautiful hair

You camouflage me

Your desire over mineLike a lizard burrowing Toward life in a dune

Your voice over mineLike the slither of a snakeA monotonous zigzag

Your Faith over mineLike the scorching sunDemanding a chameleon to transform at will

Now that I am camouflagedDo you care to seek me out?

Desert

The warm wooly comfort of wineFestering on the side of your tongueThe morning after

A guilty loverWho dresses hurriedly before sunriseThe morning after

The sticky leftoversClinging like death and surrenderThe morning after

The wind over the desertStinging and caressing with grains and stoneThe morning after

Sweat and blood and memoriesCollected in your bellybuttonThe morning after

And wordsWhispered and screamedEchoed and silentForever freedAnd never forgottenEven in the morning after

After Taste

Do you remember that spring dayWhen we undid our love?The city wet with birthThe earth crawling under usAs snow and ice metamorphosed?At night we slept raw and desirelessNaked on the floor

When my first son was bornA nervous nurse dropped the placenta on the floorAfter my soundless infantHad been liftedWhite and disinterestedFrom my bodyWhile I was paralyzed and speechless to reclaim it

When my second son was bornI had plans to crush the placenta into powderAnd eat itBut a shocked attendant called me cannibalisticAnd righteously placed my placentaPurple and aliveIn a silver metal bowl

When my third son was bornOn a rusted bed stained with the lament of warI tenderly guided out my placentaIts cord thick and hardAnd laid it on my stomachThe silence with which it spokeHas left me motionless ever since

Placentas

For years you have come to me in my dreamsHolding back your hood as you placed an infant in a basket on the NileLeading sheep to slaughter in celebrationCarrying frankincense and myrrh to cloak your intentionsYou with yoursAnd me with mineTerrified to see us before you

I put my nose in the nook of your neckThat private place between bone and voiceAnd smellThe world you have brought into me

The powder on the underside of a moth’s wingThe succulent white of freshly pulled grass oozingThe dense salty death in a water dog’s pelt

ThenYou put your arms around my neckLegs around my waistAnd hug meCompletely

YouFull of SeptemberYour tough little armsThin with muscle and sinewYour olive skin untainted by livingYour hair that smells only of airThe fine shell of your chestPressed against me

Porcelain on glass

You are my placentaFragments of self Lost before youReturned in your arms

The Scent of a Boy on aSeptember Evening

She can finally hear the voices of traffic outside the windowAnd imagine other people in carsMen and womenTheir ringed fingers touching briefly on the spaces between their seats

The house cracking under the weight of comfortThe water dripping from the tap downstairsThe dog barking next doorThe sound of fingernails on her scalp massaging away memory

She can finally feel her bodyReshaped by years of giving it to othersTheir legs around her waist and bums on hipsPermanently redesigned her waistline

Her body lets go of its dutiesAllows the tongues of words to kiss her goodnightTo lick her eyelashes and the soft skin behind her knee jointsIn the language of her world and the now of her body

Words and her in stillnessMoving to the moans of sleeping childrenLaughter and whimperingThe hiss of air through nostrils

After the Children are Sleeping

On the roofAfter midnightShe can see her wire-connected world clearly.Antennas, clotheslines, electrical wiresA jungle of connectionsInside the barbed wire barriersSeparating past from presentHopes of a futureBuried alongside the living

Before midday she likes to journey undergroundTo her place of securityA dark damp enclosure of blood, feces and snotA memory nowConsciously brought into the presentLike the splash of a child jumping into a swimming pool

She brings her visitors hereNurses from Denmark, doctors from France, journalists from SwedenEager to treat this maladyOf homelessness and ennuiShe proudly exhibits the blood stainsKnocks on the concreteAnd smells its memories on her finger tips Into the evening

She tells the story of the 40 day siegeOf how rats were eaten in this very placeOut of desperationShe knows the story in three languagesAnd smiles as she tells the tale of terror to the doctors in despair.

In the evenings she visits the graveyards of martyrsPlacing neat configurations of stones,Not flowers,TrianglesCirclesSquaresThe perfect geometry of death

And at nightShe sits on the roofEyes traveling the antennasPatrolling the alleys belowBarefoot childrenYoung man with permanent grease stains under their fingernails playing dominoesWomen with marks of childbirth and lossTaking in clothes from neighbors’ roofs

Alone in her bedShe finds herself.A body scarred but untouchedFeet swollen from marchingTongue thick from preachingFingertips moist from their underground journeys

When the generators are turned offDominoes packed awayAnd the whispers of men and women no longer creep down the olive vines,She sneaks undergroundCloses the hatch over herUntil memory,Her lover,wakes her at sunrise.

Rashidieh

When he dancedHe erased historyCenturies of placesExile had etched on his bodyDissipatedWhen his limbs Reclaimed their country

When he dancedHe erased my historyShadowsExcusesIdeologiesShyly slithered backward into my soul

I held Herodotus in my handsAnd ripped out his pagesDigging my heels into his alphabet

Then in silence I satWeaving the fabric of a foreign alphabetInto a sweater for my shattered spine

Ardha

Cold stone on foreheadhands balanced to form a triangle of faith(or is it practice?)And I remember the Skythat night

the murmurs of the Believersand the smells of their eager bodies behind mearound mecarrying the scents of India – dripping jasmine and coconut oilsweat barely dried from their journeys up through Africaacross Arabiastill wet on their upper lipscarrying with them small grains of sand in the creases between their toesthat ablution could not wash away

And I rememberthe purplish hewselectricity against moist landscapeevery droplet of fog suspended in a moment of arid lucidityhills of the forefront, usually green, sloping and defiantnow a backdrop, a purple mass of finger-painteverything a backdrop forthe Skyand the fine lines of silverone embracing the otherfor perfectiondisintegrating as the other emergesin brilliance

AgainA few seconds of brilliance before allianceand then invisibility

Such perfect symmetry of Dissolving and BecomingBecoming and Dissolving

My face reaches the sacred StoneI smell the scent of Ibrahimhis aged hands cracked from the desert shamalsperfumed with the waters of Zam Zam and the young Ismaelfingers soft brown and quicksmelling of garlic and onionthenthe sticky congealed smellof the sacrificenot so long ago

and I remember that nightthe light touch of Father’s tobacco-stained fingerspermanent orange traces on my lower backthe coffee and cigarettes of his mouthopen in wondermentas we watchthe Sky together

And nowBodies Unknown§against meI feel only their silver and purpleas my lips are pressedagainstThe Kabaah

Chain Lightning

From across the beachShe feels the weight of your eyes

Your gazeIs like the sting of salt water between her toesThe languid lapse of calves and thighsAs waves caress and retreatLike your eyes

Your back is stiff and ashamedHalf turned toward her and half turned toward the eastHalf eager to turn aroundAnd face herNot eye on mouthNor eye on breastA voyeur’s glimpse full of regret and longingBut a full stareOf you into her

She hears your voice whisperingLike a shamal through the cracks of the Saudi desertEarth ripping open from withinSo deprived of moisture that it has cracked through the core

She dives into the water to hear your voiceTo give to it her memoriesThe morning dew clinging to the oil paint of a clapboarded houseSalty residues of water on earth

Do not be afraidShe is only a womanToo laden with memoryWith place and timeTo ever turn you towards herToo burdened with ageAnd self deprecationTo ever return your gaze

YetUnder the promise of your averted eyesShe is young againEmerging from the waves like a butterfly from a cocoonAnd with the twitch of her wingsyou open your arms to the rain

Expatriate

Clash of Civilizations

Allow me to be sentimental and shower you with wordsCall me what you likeA fool or a decaying idealistIt’s all the same when the time is right

What are you expecting this to be my dear?A sonnet, a haiku an odeOr the nothing that I love to write

Maybe I’ll paint a picture for you of our shared memoriesin watercolor, chalk, or inkBut that would get rather complex don’t you think?Since we both remember different things

Don’t laugh at me nowI’m being quite serious you knowDon’t tell me your loins acheOr your member is misbehavingAnd I’ll promise to tell you the truthWhen I find it.

So loveAre you preparing for the clash of civilizations?I suppose it’s necessaryI have cold coffee, dry toast and some dynamite in my tote bagDynamite to fend them offDry toast should last a few days though it will be a bit burntAnd cold coffee is thick and I never drink it

You see I’m sentimental todaySo take it allI don’t need itI’ll just eat my philosophies

The landscape of your country already knows meIts proud cliffs are imprintedWith the footsteps of my childhood feetThat have never touched themThe volcanic springs are heavy with scents of my many repetitive deathsThe underwater forests still resound with the echoes of my fears lost in their depths

This landscape holds memories of meThat I don’t have of myselfI am wiped blankAnd recorded here like etchings on a wrinkled parchment,I am indecipherable

Expatriate part II

I sought you out on my bookshelvesFingers lingering over the spines of booksLooking for the one through which I could enter you

I dreamt you into lifeA fine boned child in a body of armorA fine fingered musician dancing to the rhythms of war

I envisioned you in my armsYour eyes rolled backYour raw heart pumping blood into my open veins

I sniffed your fearsAnd leaping over shadows of places and pastsI pursued you and howled at the moon

Your senses electrocuted me

You, so full of yourselves:

Worms inside a rusted tin canA school of fish darting here and thereA bundle of soft kittens suckingBlind mice in a nestLizard eggsPetals on a roseSpecks of dust in sunlightPatterned threads on clothA flock of geese flying in a V

YouAs soft as the pads on a newborn’s feetAir blown from a saxophoneRaindrops on a windowpaneSmoke from a pipeStrings on an oudDrops of sweat on an upper lipSpecks of yellow in the eyes of a catFoam on the crest of a waveSoft moss on the underside of a boulder

YouWho I entered at first sightAnd swam under your twin riversHolding my breath all the timeWeeping by your monumentsEating greedily from your orchardsWorshipping in your desertsSleeping in your valleys

UntilGravityForcedMeOutOfYour Mouth

Grravity

I should have knownnever to love a man in exileHe will reinvent you as his countryAnd carve his memory on your body Without mercy he will give you the names of his cities, villages, childhood friends, loversThen he will curse your foreignness.

ArabiaMerciless loverWill you ever give me peace?A woman who learned love in your menPoetry in your miseryHope in your childrenFaith in your prophet?

ArabiaI emerge from your mouthPack my lessons into suitcasesRealign my senses to what once was familiarAnd swear to rewrite the woman on these pages

ArabiaForgive meI should have known my placeNot struggled against the gravity of historyAnd the black hole of the present.

ArabiaShow mercy And sleep in meMy final exile for a woman fated to be exiled from exile

The drops fall panicky onto the back porchAnd the tar starts to glisten brighter than sunlightSomewhere the rumble of thunder beginsLike the turning of a page of an old dusty book

Soon it will come crashing at my windowThere is nothing to be doneIt will sweep in and send my papers scatteringThere is nothing to be doneIt will knock me to my knees and burst open my seams There is nothing to be doneIt will turn me over like a frying eggThere is nothing to be done

Once I believed the new born comfort in the eye of a suckling kittenas it drove its claws into its mother’s breastWas happiness

Once I thought a slither of ice clinging like slime to a dying leaf was beauty

Once I thought young hands clasped like knotted ropes on a crowded street was truth

Now I don’t.

NowI just open the windowAnd with arms outstretchedInvite my melancholy friendto carry me home

Writing

Neither young nor oldStill and quiveringYou limp away from my outstretched handYour maimed bodyOnce limitless and weightlessNow lopsided and ruffledDragging itself toward solitude

I feel the hot burden of embarrassmentAnd turn my head awayLike I did when I saw my grandmother undressingAnd my mother dying

A Dying Duck

About the authorJacqueline O’Rourke has lived in Canada, Africa and the Middle East. She has pursued various academic interests and is completing a PhD in contemporary cultural theory. She has written poetry since childhood and finds inspiration in the interconnected worlds of art, music, mysticism and literature. She lives with her sons in Doha, Qatar. This is her first collection of poetry.