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    Cadaver, Speak
    Cadaver, Speak
    Cadaver, Speak
    Ebook124 pages1 hour

    Cadaver, Speak

    By Marianne Boruch

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    About this ebook

  • The hook to this book is full-flower in a quote from Marianne Boruch, describing her time in the cadaver lab: “The cadaver nevertheless pushed me aside to speak for herself, to give her take on dissection and her long life on the planet before she generously gave her body that those doctors-to-be might learn crucial secrets.”

  • ...and another quote: “Some books begin as a dare to the self.”

  • Boruch is the most recent winner of the Kingsley Tufts Poetry Award
    • LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCopper Canyon Press
    Release dateAug 1, 2016
    ISBN9781619321403
    Cadaver, Speak
    Author

    Marianne Boruch

    Marianne Boruch is the author of five poetry collections and the essay collection Poetry’s Old Air. She has published poems and essays widely in the Georgia Review, American Poetry Review, Nation, and other magazines. She teaches in the M.F.A. Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College and in the Department of English at Purdue University, and lives in Purdue, Indiana.

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      Book preview

      Cadaver, Speak - Marianne Boruch

      [image: cover][image: cover]

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      Thank you. We hope you enjoy these poems.

      This e-book edition was created through a special grant provided by the Paul G. Allen Family Foundation. Copper Canyon Press would like to thank Constellation Digital Services for their partnership in making this e-book possible.

      to Forrest, his first hundred years to come,

      and for James Judkins, beloved irrepressible uncle-in-law

      They undressed the corpse, but had no time to take the gloves off; a corpse in gloves.

      ANTON CHEKHOV

      There is great Similarity between a Muscle and a Nerve.

      JOHN KEATS

      Having run out of paper,

      I am writing on your rough draft.

      ANNA AKHMATOVA

      Contents

      Title Page

      Note to Reader

      Dedication

      First

      I

      Face

      Pencil

      Old Paintings

      Reason

      At the Forum

      The Small Hours

      Skinny Fat

      It Could Be

      Portrait

      Little Wife

      Bolus

      The Pope under Glass

      Tears in Reverse

      Turn

      Thread

      Rom, du bist eine Welt

      A Vision

      My Ears Aren’t Right

      At the Keats House, Rome

      Practice Saying

      Human Atlas

      How Hair Is

      Like unto Like

      Knowledge

      The Souls of the Dead

      Read the Gesture

      Mind and Body

      Hands

      II

      Cadaver, Speak

      Acknowledgments

      About the Author

      Books by Marianne Boruch

      Copyright

      Special Thanks

      First

      it’s given. Then made.

      Until the dying one says Dream, undream me.

      Fragment to pattern, to inscription

      in dust, on leaf, across any

      cardboard box in the dumpster.

      He climbs a ladder to scrape then paint

      one side of the house each summer into fall.

      Or he skips a few years. Another winter

      ringed by a keyhole. And the door, what of

      the hinge, little cry that won’t uncry itself —

      I

      Face

      On winter’s long red-eye out of Anchorage, small lamps

      near the floor made

      a grainy blurry everything, which meant

      awake, then almost, then heads slipping back

      or to the side, mouths jarred open.

      There are words

      bodies vanish to — curved, slumped, relaxed, released.

      And a sound, not the underwater lament of the whale, not its

      distant me to you, don’t even imagine.

      I heard no sad rattle

      from the human throat, only the loose tic-tick of it, seats 3A

      to 10C, at last the whole cabin caught

      in night’s breathing, a dark sandpaper at work, stopped,

      to start again.

      The fact is I walked through an underworld, that aisle —

      I was up, had to — and saw in the dim

      not-yet-dawn the arms

      and legs of Shiloh and Gettysburg flung

      every which way.

      Then past that easy horrific —

      those strangers merely out, gone out,

      curled to each other: love

      in the abstract, love

      how it never comes on purpose,

      no one arranging a face to please or to frighten

      into love, just a simple forgetting who

      is who and if ever. Like children don’t know the most

      troubling thing about themselves, won’t

      for years. Or like the dead who could, but can’t tell you.

      For once I stared

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