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Lyn Lifshin: featured poet
I WAS CAUGHT IN JESUS' WEB
Tho I never thought I would be. He wasn't my type. I wasn't
looking for a commitment. I guess enough women thought
he was something. Later, one of us who'd been with him
(in the biblical sense) were all out on the porch kind of
telling how it happened, somehow linked in his glow. "What
manner of man is this," you might wonder. He was clever,
juggled words. Some said he had the cunning of the spider
hot for the fly. He did have soft and tender words. "Angel"
and "Babe" still echo in my house and I was at such a low
point when I met him. He promised me so much if I'd
follow him -- he wanted me to buy a house for us. He was poor.
"Blessed are the poor," he always said, "for they shall
inherit," and he wanted me to rewrite my will. After I sold
my house upstate, he wanted children, said he was a good
carpenter tho he was afraid to unscrew a lightbulb.
"Blessed are those who are not held by possessions for
they shall be set free," he said but he wasn't happy when
somebody broke in and took his Sony tv, the first thing he
got with his NEA grant. In many ways, he was quite human but
he could do magical things with his hands, wonderful things with
boxes -- cedar chests he polished to match the glow around him,
pine and medicine chests from golden mulberry from the huge
tree we shook the purple berries from on to a blanket that still,
like his shroud, holds stains like blood. He carved cherry
into tables, made windows to let in light. The boxes he carved
will last forever an appraiser said, they're different from any
he'd seen. Jesus dove tailed each part with patience and love --
made each box amazing as he said, once he'd finished, mine was
JESUS WANTED ME DOWN ON MY KNEES
I thought it was to pray or maybe give
him a blow job. But no, he wanted me to
scrub the floor. I guess he really felt
cleanliness was next to Godliness, felt
he liked me in that position, my ass up
in the air like a lily he could study and
enter if I was open. My heart, a sponge,
my nipples polishes, cleaning powders.
"I am the floor," he said, wanting me to
go down on his tiles, my mouth the mop and
the vacuum, his wood must glow he whispered,
"this is my body, eat," and tho I was on a diet,
I couldn't say no. There were fleck of blood
on his pale white, as if I was a virgin until he
moved inside me, or stigmata. He was firm
as someone into S and M but caring, too and
protective. The brooms and buckets could have
been handcuffs. He was erect as a scaffold,
or cross jutting up there, insisting I strip
off the blankets, let light in as if it was
getting to what is good, revealing some truth,
as if scrubbing and mopping his body was service, sacred
union and he wanted me in servitude to something
higher. He had a strap near the bed, want the bed
perfect as a black sheet, wanted me that way too.
"Hospital corners," he hissed. If I left wrinkles in the
bed, he asked me to bend over and he lashed me with his staff,
for my own good, because he loved me. "Spare the rod and
spoil," he shrieked, his breath on my back. Within days, he began
using his rod. He said it would bring me closer to God. As
I scrubbed and smoothed, he'd opened me over the sheets, said
he was consecrating my body, putting the micro mini up to where I was
blistered, as if my skin was crying for him. Some afternoons, I was
drained from quivering and moaning. My buttocks trembled like holy rollers.
I was on fire, at least it felt like that. Then he plunged in and I moaned when he
entered, swirled in circles as if I was scrubbing the toilet. "It is better to give
than to receive," he yelped, giving me more almost than I could take. I reached
for the Trojans but he came unexpectedly and I couldn't resist the passion. I
think, though, he wanted every part of me to serve him, said he'd save me, really
he was looking for a cheap cleaning service
THE MAD GIRL READ ABOUT THE ICE MAN
wonders if he was
bad. He had at least
8 ribs broken earlier
in his life, bad
arthritis of the neck,
right hip and lower back,
a bit of thickening
of the arteries, some
hardening. She wonders
where else he was like
stone. He was less than
40, more a mess she sighs
that we'd expect from a
man in his 30's. so far,
only "non-invasive"
research has been done
on the mummified corpse.
He seems to need his space,
has to be let alone she
sneers remembering the
radio man who fantasized
legs wrapping him but
used the dump button
if anyone got close.
A hiker found him she
reads in Austria in Sept.
1991. He was a cold man
she guesses. Still. His
body in a big humidity
freezer a little like his
glacial home of 5,300
years. She tries to
imagine opening legs to
this cold hunk when she's
already freezing. He's
had 2000 x rays, they say
he's unique but it's hard
to say if his abnormalities
were common in the early
bronze age. Hell, anything
abnormal probably goes she
guesses from just being
a man. And those calcium
deposits -- probably from
sucking a lot of milky tits
she frowns. He probably would
not have been much fun -- a
lot of what he's got she
reads comes from being a
slothful over eater. Tho his
stomach appears to be empty,
his colon contains feces --
a sample of which will be
retrieved next year to see,
the mad girl assumes, if
like so many men he
is full of shit
SPORTS ILLUSTRATED COVER
The woman is
molded, perfect
as a mannequin not
a hair where it
shouldn't be no
sag no smell no
veins, he hips
as revved as
Penelope's fingers,
not letting absence
excuse her from
keeping in shape,
twisting and weaving,
arms raised like
someone at a loom,
retreating and making
out of ordinary
strands, a pattern to
astonish and,
like birds against
a plum sky,
darker threads
you can only
imagine
Lyn Lifshin is probably one of the most widely published poets on the planet. Her many collections include Upstate Madonna Poems, The Mercurochrome Sun Poems, The Doctor Poems, Kiss the Skin Off, Blue Tattoo, and her new book, Before It's Light.
