Andrea Witzke Slot

Root Position

Life-film of black and white
      in minor keys. There lies
the augmented self. A reaching
      —not forward—but back,

down, in. Where notes
      once slid freely to major,
were unchained in C,
      the root of

Sunday afternoons,
      children’s silhouettes
outside panes
      of leaded glass,

two adults sitting
      at an oak table,
newspapers spread,
      agrément of tapping

as a girl’s feet pressed pedals,
      released sounds held
for longer than designed,
      catching like moths

the vibrating chords,
      as if able to join
the diminished triads,
      the double sharp arpeggios--

the notes heard in different
      ways by different ears,
altered by the unreachable
      pinblock bridge of time.

How do we measure this hourly
      life, the nightly case
of pedals? We look for notes even
      in the shutting of eyes, of lids.

---

Lexiphilia

   
She was told at eight she had the disease.
The doctors shook their heads gravely,
Her mother fed her voraciously.
She has the disease, her teachers whispered,
looking from side to side to make sure no one overheard,
as if it might be contagious:
worse than a pig-like flu
or any helminthologic substance
known to man or beast (as these come and go in every school).
Her mother’s mouth dropped open.

They soon learned that she had a more virulent strain
of the sad illness. It was not easy for anyone, least of all her.
The way they pushed themselves into her,
pushed their way out of her. She took them and smeared
them all over her, like a child in the playground who loves mud too well.

I remember the time she tried to purge herself of the disease.
She was in college and her bones began to show.
Ah, the thousand petite morts of the etymologist.
They will eat her alive. And they don’t even have any brains.

She smiles, insists, I am not sick.
I just love the bella viaggio of the
dictionary, the playful romp with the word of the day,
I eat these wormy strings until, like tapeworms,
they wriggle through my body. Look at the way my fingers move.
I do not mind. I want no cure.

Such a shame, they sigh. And she was pretty, too.
(There’s nothing wrong with television!)
Her eyes light up in response.
As if worms spell tragedy.




--
Andrea Witzke Slot is author of the poetry collection To find a new beauty (Gold Wake Press, 2012). Her work has appeared in such places as Tupelo Quarterly, Borderlands, Verse Daily, Southern Women’s Review, and Translation Review, while her scholarly essays on dialogic poetry and social change are forthcoming in critical collections from SUNY Press and Palgrave Macmillan. Andrea teaches at UIC and is an associate editor at Rhino Poetry as well as the book review editor at Fifth Wednesday Journal. She lives outside Chicago with her husband, the youngest of her five children/stepchildren, and her crazy West Highland Terrier, Macbeth. Learn more at http://www.andreawitzkeslot.com.