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The Way She Figured He Figured It.

You get over these constant storms and learn to be married all over
 again, every day.
 --Barry Hannah
The foyer is hers because the kettle is hers as it was made for water
and the water is hers
 because the sac that grew the baby was hers though the semen that
made
 the sac was his
 like his boots are his and the tea that's of the
kettle
after it enters his mouth is his unless it's hers since it's
inside the kitchen that's hers
and therefore not his unless he's simmering the Asian sauces that
are his
 because they're dense and knotty rather than milkish and
paltry
 like everything else from the nation state of the
motherland
of the no-mercy child who won't stop sucking and wanting and
whining in the ear that is his
although the child herself belongs somehow to the woman and thus its
hunger is hers
 as is the bed and dresser and mirror and latch
 though the hammer naturally is his and the saw and lumber
and back and muscle he suffered to build because he guessed he thought
it would be
good for something besides this house like a pestilence of people who
weren't his
 because nothing was his except the whirl he carried in his belly of
the
 mix-up
 of loving her in the first place like being sucked
into a burrow of lava embers and putting your tongue to it until it
caught fire
and all he could say was that the burn
 was his--this hole in the mouth--this
 fiasco of the woman bent now in the garden to smell the cilantro
 as though she didn't know his head was split
with hating her and loving her and hating her and loving her because she
was an ache and a kink and somehow the furrow--the groove and the
rut-and
 age and death and kiss and fuck and not-fuck and song and not-song
 and no it was not sweet though he'd go on and carry
it
 since also--since mostly--it was. 


photograph by Lilian Kemp

ADRIAN BLEVINS' The Brass Girl Brouhaha was published by Ausable Press in 2003 and won the 2004 Kate Tufts Discovery Award. Blevins is also the recipient of a Rona Jaffe Writers' Foundation Award for poetry, the Lamar York Prize for Nonfiction, and a Bright Hill Press chapbook award for The Man Who Went Out for Cigarettes (Bright Hill Press, 1996). Her poems and essays have appeared in Poetry, The Georgia Review, The Southern Review, The Massachusetts Review, The Utne Reader, Salon.com, and many other magazines and journals. New poems are forthcoming in TriQuarterly and Pleiades. She teaches at Colby College in Waterville, Maine.
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Title Annotation:two poems
Author:Blevins, Adrian
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 1, 2007
Words:518
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