Carole Symer
Self-Portrait as Old Woman in a Shoe
(a proposal for my quiet insolence)
a body
on a string
sneaker
w/o a mate
like I am
now
at 32
weeks
yellow tape
across
rent-stabilized
studio
Hudson &
Greenwich
an eyesore
I let
after
my ex-
unleashed
his grief
an eyelid here
a leg there
like this
sonogram
my belly
a bowl
I cradle
like broth
a body
w/in a body
a foot
w/in a shoe
a house
I built
when he
didn’t
know what
to do
w/me
hanging on
casting him
the old shoe
a body
on a string
sneaker
w/o a mate
like I am
now
at 32
weeks
yellow tape
across
rent-stabilized
studio
Hudson &
Greenwich
an eyesore
I let
after
my ex-
unleashed
his grief
an eyelid here
a leg there
like this
sonogram
my belly
a bowl
I cradle
like broth
a body
w/in a body
a foot
w/in a shoe
a house
I built
when he
didn’t
know what
to do
w/me
hanging on
casting him
the old shoe
Framed: A Diorama
ok, here, take this needle. Sew the table & people
into place. Tell them it is morning & the cast
iron is sizzling fish. Add a warm speckled blue
egg to the ducky bowl & dire coffee on an old
stove. Let them breathe burped-up bacon in the house
before devastation took. Then, walk back the picture
of Winter Dad as cook, thief & ghost. See, the picture
of how violence spread & hid under chairs & in people
with their arms raised. Until the once cozy house
grabs him by the throat. Still, some will grow to cast
love as doing them in & the famine will make old
nettle & snake look appetizing. Lies turn their throats blue,
while the f-word streams in all directions as the blue
feelings stalk the perimeter walls. Or so says the picture
hung cock-eyed. Keep walking, keep walking the old
scene back. Use fat crayons to wax the faces of people,
then put Summer Dad on a leash. No thimble, no eyes cast
down as you glue wings & a halo above the house
& please, no quiver of lip but yes, reshape that house
archway into a cloud falling apart. Cut ten metallic blue
pipe cleaners into stubs to show how many tongues cast
more Dad-lies & kept dancing, dancing around the picture
of Mama whom Sister called hysteric. Soon the people
will turn on Sister instead. Soon they will grow old, old
memories of a bed of snakes entangled like ribbons, old
in their gums, gnawing through the venomous house,
as their bobble heads float through air. Soon the people
will stop looking or feeling. As Autumn Dad’s blue
testicles dried up on the hanging hooks. The picture
shifts & a he-snake winds his way under the porch, cast
out, licking his own pleasure. A last bowl of milk cast
down. Tell them no one gets to eat. Soon, a bouquet of old
dandelions. An offering outside Mama’s door. Picture
the uncaged creatures slithering through the house,
their squirming snake heads turning glossy blue.
Stick the glue gun to Mama’s good ear. Make the people
listen & soon you’ll get to grow old memories of blue snakes,
entangled like ribbons beside a venomous house. Before you cast
more people under glass & call it a stupid, crummy picture.
into place. Tell them it is morning & the cast
iron is sizzling fish. Add a warm speckled blue
egg to the ducky bowl & dire coffee on an old
stove. Let them breathe burped-up bacon in the house
before devastation took. Then, walk back the picture
of Winter Dad as cook, thief & ghost. See, the picture
of how violence spread & hid under chairs & in people
with their arms raised. Until the once cozy house
grabs him by the throat. Still, some will grow to cast
love as doing them in & the famine will make old
nettle & snake look appetizing. Lies turn their throats blue,
while the f-word streams in all directions as the blue
feelings stalk the perimeter walls. Or so says the picture
hung cock-eyed. Keep walking, keep walking the old
scene back. Use fat crayons to wax the faces of people,
then put Summer Dad on a leash. No thimble, no eyes cast
down as you glue wings & a halo above the house
& please, no quiver of lip but yes, reshape that house
archway into a cloud falling apart. Cut ten metallic blue
pipe cleaners into stubs to show how many tongues cast
more Dad-lies & kept dancing, dancing around the picture
of Mama whom Sister called hysteric. Soon the people
will turn on Sister instead. Soon they will grow old, old
memories of a bed of snakes entangled like ribbons, old
in their gums, gnawing through the venomous house,
as their bobble heads float through air. Soon the people
will stop looking or feeling. As Autumn Dad’s blue
testicles dried up on the hanging hooks. The picture
shifts & a he-snake winds his way under the porch, cast
out, licking his own pleasure. A last bowl of milk cast
down. Tell them no one gets to eat. Soon, a bouquet of old
dandelions. An offering outside Mama’s door. Picture
the uncaged creatures slithering through the house,
their squirming snake heads turning glossy blue.
Stick the glue gun to Mama’s good ear. Make the people
listen & soon you’ll get to grow old memories of blue snakes,
entangled like ribbons beside a venomous house. Before you cast
more people under glass & call it a stupid, crummy picture.
Round & Round a Rondelet
As you glue wings,
while devastation took,
as you glue wings
& a halo above the house, please
no quiver of lip, no cloud falling apart;
even though, sure, more dad-lies, more bobble heads shook
at the picture of blue testicles & a phone off the hook
while devastation took.
while devastation took,
as you glue wings
& a halo above the house, please
no quiver of lip, no cloud falling apart;
even though, sure, more dad-lies, more bobble heads shook
at the picture of blue testicles & a phone off the hook
while devastation took.
--
Carole Symer is the author of the chapbook Glint (Harbor Editions). A psychologist who works primarily with neurodiverse adolescents, her interviews, reviews, and poems have appeared in publications such as The Adroit Journal, Tupelo Quarterly, and LIT Magazine. She holds an M.F.A from Warren Wilson and teaches at New York University.
Carole Symer is the author of the chapbook Glint (Harbor Editions). A psychologist who works primarily with neurodiverse adolescents, her interviews, reviews, and poems have appeared in publications such as The Adroit Journal, Tupelo Quarterly, and LIT Magazine. She holds an M.F.A from Warren Wilson and teaches at New York University.