Enrapture HANNAH GEISLER
Enrapture Table of Contents
A Dedication: To My Marine ..................................................................................................................................... 3 Maternal Bastion ................................................................................................................................ 4 Morning .............................................................................................................................................. 6 This Pernicious Touch........................................................................................................................ 7 Mother Earth ...................................................................................................................................... 8 To Katrina........................................................................................................................................... 9 When Your Lover Dies ..................................................................................................................... 10 Yesterday ......................................................................................................................................... 11 Mechanical ....................................................................................................................................... 13 the altar speaks ................................................................................................................................ 14 The Uninhabited ............................................................................................................................... 15 Wife .................................................................................................................................................. 16 These Vows ..................................................................................................................................... 17 Renege: To My Dead FiancĂŠ ........................................................................................................... 18 Enamour........................................................................................................................................... 19
To My Marine (on the endeavors of Boot-camp)
I. Here’s to apricots: dehydrated your mouth my nomadic wasteland evacuated like the stripping bark of trees. II. Letters wilting like crimson phlox; a hopeless exertion at discourse but I miss the hominal collisions of flushed skin and meek lips. III. Is it strange to deceive myself exist within the space between your two palms— —get lost in the wires — in the velour amnesia? we are black and white murals fractured hands of the hour longing to collide once more.
Maternal Bastion I held you softly in my palm like blue hydrangeas: daughter of dirt, you grew like weeds on a wet morning. Our wedding night held clear skies; your father and I laid on concrete floors picking names like petals. My wild child, morning mild as he and I fell asleep to the city’s moan. For three months the city skies cradled your head as its own blue baby; showed you velvet luxuries that could only exist in your wildest fantasies. Meanwhile your father and I picked the weeds stubbornly growing outside between cracks in the concrete. I felt you turning restlessly during the night when I knew something was wrong. It was a black night, groggy lover—speeding through the sleeping city. I fell hard (in my dream) crowning myself a concrete hallow; then there you were, pale blue in the face, throat enclosed in hellish weeds. Your swollen lips formed the sweet howls of a wild animal, but Baby, I’ve always been one to bet on the wildcard. It was 2:49 when we arrived that sacred night, our first floor window overrun with weeds but behind the chaos, still hearing distant prayers of our city. And I saw you come to me, enveloped in a mellow blue light that I swore I grasped as concretely as these frigid sheets. The idea had not been concrete— baby you were only a concept until we held your wildly swinging limbs tightly in our arms. I adore you, Blue Baby. I adore your divine cries that puncture the night time still, so we load you in the back seat, the passing city colors create a peaceful lull. You sleep like dandelion weeds. Face of an innocent peach, I try to weed out the thorns; my religion has never been so concrete. Your parents may be young, but so is this city: an old scene hidden beneath the wild eyes of wandering strangers. Nights spent awake, lacing your hair with hydrangeas, blue. These restless nights are poisonous weeds; the horizon aches Blue Valentine. Smudged chalk on concrete sidewalks— you are blossoming wildflowers in this dour city.
Morning The floorboards creak in your absence; footprints of soft and dusty tracks. Room morning stale yet silence stings like windows, I inhale your champagne lungs. Long eyelashes imprint my secrets in your skin. Our hands—a flint, your palms on fire; at once your mouth derails on mine. Your fingers read my cheeks like brail; goose-bumps erupt on flesh, lavender mint grows through my teeth. They crack. Dilapidate— tearing away, wires pulling with each breath. Dilute our sunflow’r minds with spit; we love like statues rust. Cement bodies inflate and hang-dry mildly green. A shade of death we paint our walls while minutes melt above.
This Pernicious Touch You rest your hand in my back pocket and tell me that I am your bartlett— so sweet laurel green—fresh like damp yellow Birchwood, the natural ambiance of an herb garden, and rounded in the manner that a proper woman should be. You tip your jagged nose to the sun and I spit in the weeds—so ignorant and slimy like your fingers. But I let you savor me one last time; we love in the sodden grasp of Earth—angelic limbs full of lust. And soon you’re damning the dirt—grasping your jaw and roaring of a toothache. With wooden hands—organic branches, I drag your face back to mine; nails gripping, puncturing your cheek—these ripened lips rotting your mouth.
Mother Earth (to my momma)
You are a teeming Coca Cola bottle—brilliant red and sugary like the American dream. Your hips are rounded, sugar globes melting in the lunar eclipse. Hands like peonies, you bless innocence with delicate warmth—a sugary lavender frosting that coats my shoulders. Baby’s-breath. You are youthful rosy cheeks and eyes of pearls—sugar cubes reducing to caramel, dripping from your chin. Flour in our pores, this is effervescent beauty: sugar cascading like snowfall from your fingertips. These fairy lights crown your nutmeg hair like Virgin Mary—sugary white stars we string in the windows. You smile softly as I sneak pieces of apple from beneath the milky dough, glazed in cinnamon, sugar, and devotion. You hang a new Coca-Cola bottle from the tree, humming quietly to me— the house fragrant with burnt sugar.
To Katrina (after Hurricane Patricia)
When Patricia first fell for Katrina she drowned her cerebellum in Merlot. It was Saffir-Simpson High’s night of the classics, “Celebrating a Decade.” The gym was aglow with a twinkling ambiance, adorned in bubble lights, tinfoil and cocktail dresses. Patricia took in her lover’s grace—vivacious auburn waves so phosphorescent in the fading yearbook photo: Katrina Zabat: Class of 2005. She fell 3500 feet off a sandbar and landed on a carousel, drifting among the drowning horses. Patricia moved South, immersing herself in the swampy lowlands of Katrina’s spit. She braided seaweed through her hair, trying to imitate Katrina’s lustrous tresses. And during the long nights, she’d dream of taking Katrina out—sharing timid smiles and winks over mimosas. Trying to impress her, Patricia began to devour bridges. In her anxiety she accidentally drank the pacific, and as they made aquatic love, swallowed Mexico.
When Your Lover Dies you’ll burn the pancakes and the house will froth with black bananas and charred coffee. You’ll let the grinds ferment until decomposition: your vigor their dermis, the chiffon bedroom drapes. When you taste their last breath, the basement will reek of carbonation and you’ll have the hiccups for three weeks. You’ll cancel the newspaper, indulge in paper planes and in the flames of your lunacy, cremate your kitchen table, a vase full of peonies, and the hanging image of your hallowed Jah.
Yesterday Childhood is wildflowers and pomegranate seeds, my hands always reaching for the safety in yours. In my dreams I am Where the Wild Things Are, and you say, “Slow down, baby. One day.” Because naïve ambitions dissipate like summer storms. Barefoot sunsets are of yesterday. Do you think fireflies burn? Yesterday I lit my esophagus on fire; the tips of my hands shorting out like circuits. Bonfires pollute the summer air, carving new beginnings. You and I drive with all four windows down because “There’s smoke coming out of your hair,” you say. We turn to each other in the smog of reality, all saying a lot of things; these days I’ve learned to say nothing. Yesterday my father told me, “it’s okay to be average.” Because not everyone can be holy when life hands you a glass so shattered your lips bleed for weeks. I will not cry over the spilt milk because milk spoils in the summer heat. Sew me this summer into your jean pockets. I never really know how to say I’m afraid. Oversaturated with firefly fantasies, I feel that I’m too far from pomegranate sandboxes of yesterday. We watch the sun scorch straining hands; knowing we must learn first to trip because tripping means falling means lying because we must get to know our feet before running away. I have summer pinned up in my hair and your hands aggressively pull at the clips. My curls tug loose—I say that we are moving too fast; soon tomorrow will be yesterday. Wishful thinking is “you and I,” but sitting between the constellations: it’s “you”, it’s “I.” We try to connect the dots because maybe we can teach ourselves to survive. Yesterday has become years away; and now summer doesn’t seem like so much of a destination. We say “slow down,” now desperately reaching for hands— yesterday was protection. And I
cry when you hand me pomegranate seeds because summers pass so quickly now, we’ve nothing left to say.
Mechanical He stood over her body—still and lacking in the jocund spirit she had always breathed into his cupped palms—carved in China, crippled from fingering fiberglass and steel. He treasured her soft palms, delicately crafted like fine lace and posies—fingertips colliding over crossed ankles. His joints would rest softly, rotting like clamshells and old chain links— tarnished silver spoons she’d shine with her spit. For dinner she’d devour hailstorms, lodging globes of ice in her throat like candied moons, bearing an abhorred glacier as her own beloved child. A nurturing smile served as his own medicine—he supposed all such Saviors died too soon. He thought only of her ivory palms, trembling with his as hungry lips. In the naked morning, he’d bleach her lungs before kissing each one of her immaculate fingertips.
the altar speaks For a moment I was a barn and the feet that bruised me were leather boots, worn down and crusted in mud. The hands that kept me were honest. I was a barn, crystalized in lights. I was twinkling sapphire, crown of flowers, high-school hometown. For a moment I was a barn hosting the neighborhood bonfire— folks roasting hotdogs over burning hymnals. This is community. For a moment I was a barn where they didn’t touch boys, but banjos singing songs to the country clouds, and kissing the scars on each others’ cheeks. This is peace [be with you.] I was a barn eating Sunday flannels, family dinners. I traipsed rotting oak poles, broiled in red. For a moment I was a barn quenching my thirst with incense and dousing the trees with holy water.
The Uninhabited She grew up in a steel town— steel porch—steel peach—steel feet where youth was cold carbon dresses and glowing zinc dreams. Her daddy’s hands were her favorite: four fingered, calloused palms braiding her hair into fishtails. In the evenings, she’d watch the sun drip through the treetops like smelted ore and the boy with the burnt cheek tried to ignite a fire within her desolate form. They all walked like statues, bodies chipping slowly, shaking, as their scorched lungs quivered. Women gave birth; she’d watch their figures crack from temple down to hip. A molten mess of aortic nerves heaved irregularly in her chest—an unsettling pulsation like the birds she’d hit with rocks as a kid. Roaming the streets, she’d spit distilled jeers— the rest of the children always keeping distance. But god, she was beautiful—a weeping angel lost in the grayscale, a crucified saint anesthetized and shining. With kisses like charcoal, this boy turned her lips to ash, whispering “Honey, you’re a masterpiece and black is my favorite color.”
Wife (after Jamaica Kincaid)
wear red/
dresses and yellow latex gloves. choke /yourself with a noose of delicately brilliant pearls and finger the scars like a chocolate/ diamond necklace. never wear ripped stockings never wear fringe or lace you slut. be humble and meek seen/not/heard and when you do speak, share gossip/beef stew recipes tell me/ about grandma’s county/ fair cobbler does molasses / stain cotton? curl your hair everyday and then tie it away from your face never let him see/ you sweat. get excited over aprons/ watch infomercials and then call your girlfriends to brag about your latest gadgets. never stop/ working never set down the sponge lotion your hands twice a day to help with the bleeding get down on your knees/ polish the china/ dinner at 5 o’clock. buy lingerie sexy black lingerie and surprise him after work wear it that night/ and every night after that / and any other time that he tells you.
These Vows Midnight lavender hallucinations. We watch city silhouettes smoke behind churches paint white walls with adultery choke me with pearls and apologies, but our confessionals are full; Father needs a drink exhausted; lying three Hail Mary’s no longer enough. Get up now— please bandage your knees bruised and splintered like plums—pour out blood— this is not communion. Raise me up in sacred sheets; city shadows listening.
Renege: To My Dead Fiancé I. I’ve cycled through 11 wristwatches and Jesus Christ’s Second Coming. Twice. You didn’t even stick around to watch your sister drown in Katrina. Or 2012 Michael Phelps in Beijing. III. Plucking cherry blossoms off of the trees: I sew a budding suit onto my naked torso and attend our wedding. I recite the vows for both of us; waltzing with Amy Winehouse during the first dance. IV. I planted a garden while you were gone—today the chrysanthemums are blooming obsidian, impatience dripping white. The grapes are overwhelming our veranda— V. In my dreams, I sometimes I climb up the terrace to your half-open window, finding you with eyes dilated in a soft ethereal yearning. I hold you once more and we lay under a tender denim sky, entwined with the wild pumpkins and dandelions.
Enamour sleep well in winter, Gorgeous, love me silently like mountains of February— 3 am and you wake up sobbing over dead birds falling from the trees. You always need something hot to dissolve the sharp edges of anxiety in your dreams; each night the steam consuming a growing portion of your head. Skin of cinnamon: I covet the tender warmth of your cheeks in my hands, but loving you is evergreens—the harsh breathlessness of frigid mint engulfing my throat.