suddenly the flowers
// Soft whistle window draft // YES reads
a merry
yellow sign // Posted on
a garbage bin // Sun sun
yellow, odd odd
tangelo // Traffic
rumbles both
outside and in,
heavy trucks
thundering up my
wrists, in my bones
// D is sick and I
search inside myself for
more mothering capacity, come
back with
nothing but a
corkscrew,
a torn puzzle piece,
the letter Q, a dusty
marble,
and a beetle’s leg
// Stitch vigorous embellishment,
double rows, darts, this
buttonhole holds an empty
center // With all my heart, the girl replied
// With smarmy art, the squirrel chattered back, throwing acorns
// Isn’t this the corner
café I often frequent
when in this dream // With extravagant fare
where // I wait to meet
you, with an
escalator gliding
luxuriously yet
nonsensically down between the
tables
// Amid gaudy
umbrellas,
and soup tureens, and lithe
lizards, and glossy
goslings, and
bathers by the crab
dip // Dipping their
toes // The
beauty of the beautiful
poet is a precious
vase
that he walks holding, glowing,
catching the light //
Auratic radiance
whose rays flirtatiously
mix subject and object
// There’s
the color of a thing, and
then there’s the colors
laid onto it by
light // White of the
lampshade, yellow
sheen of the bulb,
blue shadows edged in
darker grey //
Columnar story,
story I tell myself //
Instructions for the day,
get up, don’t scream // As a
frilled, fluted, grenadine
drizzle on velvet
yolk / as a brocade
on a round low table / as a
thumb on a low level yoke
/ ambery
nape / vellum myself
from
// One thumb
one thumb drumming on a drum // Unconscionable form
worm / warn // Song
song song, the bird calls
// In wind and rain the petals
rollick,
the rain makes petals stick against
themselves
like nipply shirts // But the
flowers never
break, the branches
thrash and flail,
and the flowers are
stubborn and
they are strong and
not a single petal
falls
// Guttural engine revs
rhythmically along the
avenue // And what other
than night itself
parses new moon from bassoon
// Snot festoons the nose and
upper lip
// A flying fuck // A kid
in the bath says,
When I drank from your nipples, you had
no face
// Frolic and flounce // I
forgot the password
// Another sock snags on
that same nail
// And rising from the
artificial mist,
a “suggested memory”
// “what I was thinking
about” is a noun
clause,
acting as the subject
complement, explaining
what “The end of the world”
refers to
all the trees will fall down
// I read the poems of
the man who at the party,
I read the poems of the man whose
mouth the,
I read the
poems of the
man who saw me from across the street, who stood
waiting and said // Whose eyes
whose hands
whose light
whose holes
whose name
for me
was // Tempest tost sauce, an American
sense of
play // Autumn jackets this
piercing morning
// Train punctuation, a
siren constantly
underneath // Buffeted by disquiet I lope along,
and then
alone // Doubt all
decisions made on the train,
where the track is a line that runs
both forward and
backward // Raspberry
rhapsody in lips that leer
// I listen for the life silenced / in
extinct voices who voice
no longer // A “rest” as a
pause in music
by which music is sustained // But
this is not
a waiting area
// The narrator
coughs uncontrollably, upsetting the
scene’s gravity
// In his poems I find
only heckled speckles,
an oily beetle, and a //
Light shifts, intensifies
again, again subsides // Go
down the escalator,
then all the way through
to the back
back until you reach
blue-white reality or
something like it, faces
faces and a memory of
rushing through the tunnel, of death or of the
space between
lives, a roaring sound as of
a waterfall or
wings and all the faces rushing // Full sun
orange brown
against the window wall opposite; in one
version,
a green ladder triangle on which a
shining
torso and sunlit arm proffer
spackle,
flourish
a broad putty knife; in another, potted plants
punctuate
a green line; in another,
faded curtains frame
flat obscure grey; and in another, reflection of a
reflection,
fast tendrils of white smoke whipping
by // But who here is
the pattern-setter // Imprint of
time, shadow cast
by the false omniscience
against which I stumble
// Mine the shadow side
looking out // I wore
a string of stars to
indicate I was dreaming
// Women (even those who are bearers
of
children) are not inherently
non-violent or life-affirming
// Dried sunflower
heads on high stalks
rustle // Call the free
will lockdown
// Messages got their wires
crossed
// At night,
the plants hear each other in Latin // The
“other side” is
merely another window facing, not opposite but
what—
apposite, in continuity, in
conversation, in relation
// Your free trial will end soon // Teaching
their relevance
while maintaining their irrelevance / The statues
rearrange their
draperies // A fuzzy
thought teeters into the
room, backs out again, bumping a book to the
floor // I
thought I heard you
say fine book patchwork,
liturgical texts
themselves the counterpane
marbling // The best
is the bus. The bus is
for us // I carry this pink
coffee thermos and against its
blank reflective
sheen I hurl
thought // Buoyed by
urgency, strung along by
desperate hope
// Thought
comes back
pink and flat // Where
do these feelings
come from,
the clouds, the glass,
the traffic outside,
I am flung about by futility
// The moment splits,
two terms burst
into a third bursts into
suddenly the flowers
// I found a bowl of crispy
noodles under the
tree
where I had left them in the last
dream
// Shadowy, through
windows glutted with
reflections and
reflections on reflections and reflections of
reflections, I see mothers, nannies,
grandmothers flowing into
the library with a
crowd of
kids, and I am drenched
with
shame // Light traces
movement over stasis, dancing shadow,
obstreperous shimmy, pattern over what was
already there // What was waiting for
light,
what will remain
when light goes
// When you lose someone
you love, it’s as though you live
a double life, the life you have now, and a feeling of another life
not lived // Knotted against each moment,
and in this way
each moment
becomes double /
in the heart,
fastened, fashioned, given over
// Sky brighter this morning, when I peel back the curtains,
chasm // Fathom, phantom plasm,
who’s there?
a peek of barely lighter
air,
good morning
// It is so simple, to
live—but to live
profound, whole, and
honest, that is
a spasm
ransom under whose
surface whorls
vast
clouds // Yet at the moment most bereft,
missing you, not feeling
you
near, feeling instead a
brutal
emptiness and mocking lack, I
turn and see
sunlight playing
on the wall,
as though quickly making something there
// Busy light fingers // Linen
mine / a fine
line in / dirty loose
design in // Fireflies
flicker float, crickets
sing,
night song // Triumphantly:
Poop in the bath today! // I
coil a chunky
weight yarn around the abortion
ban, I wrap the
abortion
ban up briskly in my two
hands, deep
inside a yellow lightly flecked thick strand,
I wind
swiftly until the
abortion ban //
Floats deep
inside unseen // A
maroon SUV
eases to a stop in the
intersection while the cat squats in the litterbox, her
back modestly turned,
her tail flowing out //
At the library, the
sign says, The nest is
ready and waiting. Can
you guess what it’s
waiting for? //
For the child, or for
the book, or for anyone,
really
anyone, to see me
// Weaver’s warped
yarn twists taut
the line
doubles back and again doubles back // Although I have
not helped or understood, I
have been
there all along
and this, I suddenly and certainly know, is motherhood; this mere sufficiency,
this presence //
Braid
rough russet /
garlands children //
Will be shown
how / a funeral bier to
willow-weave /
birds and rabbits //
Oaken branch and arbute
spray / with bloody
hands with fingers dripping //
Flowers on the pear tree
shake and quake, robust and
ebullient
// Dishes sit beside their neighbor
dishes on the shelf // An
electronic voice intones,
Passengers should proceed to the other side of night
// Amid clothes racks
like infinite
unfolding
concertina bellows, I
seek a very very fancy
dress, though
I cannot afford it,
yet
suddenly I know
it will be free // A green
pencil lying on a blue
notepad
// In youth I could walk into
an opportunity and
wear the charm of my desire mixed
with
alchemical glitter
potential // But as you age,
potential becomes unseemly
// I wish
to hear from you, I
wish for
your name to appear
in my inbox // A non-sequitur is a song
of experience //
Then
a young man
enters the garden, strides quickly by
and smiles, and a fear grips me //
Somehow
he knows // He sits on a
bench
nearby and the garden fills with
the incense
of cigarettes
suddenly the flowers
// A sound, in illness, of inner life
splitting from outer, so
that noise becomes intolerable,
and in
their music class I
leave the children with D, flee to the car,
where a quiet cocoon muffles me in stuffiness // Leaf
blowers
all around blaring // You
can’t
fix or change other people // Out
of sticks and ground-
fallen fast food wrappers I structure a generative
dissonance
//I’ll
be the mommy and you be
the baby // By chance, she got down
on all fours right here, and happened that a
waylaid slant
cast a glimmer there,
and that was how she
found what was lost
// The word bound means several
different things, and
when I think of my daughter, I think of all of them,
simultaneously and,
also, discretely
// After all these years, the
stranger
// Rag rug / bag bug / slug
blub / drub hub
// At night, all the gadgets shine
their lights of varying
shapes,
sizes, and colors // By
which each gadget declares
the particularity of its voice // Swiftly the
dream
overturned itself and
all its figures
// Its figures continued dancing, but upside
down,
on swiveling heads // Hands
clacking
// Skull clapping //The hardback book
rattles
its gums, guffawing roughly and smacking its pages together,
shaking the table and upsetting the
manuscript
pages, which fly around
in a gust of dust
and leaves, smell of gasoline // I thought you said the classic
book
// I
thought
you said the rancid
fuck
// I
thought
you said Jurassic
duck
// Upside
down at the stop sign,
someone has abandoned
an enormous soup pot and its rotting contents
// Spew stew,
a mottled mash
from curb to gutter // Windy, the children say,
scrunching their eyes against the
gusts, their hair
everywhere, and for a moment they cannot walk, so strong is the
wind, so staggering its personality //
The fridge
grumbles
softly to itself,
as though trying
to remember
something // Branches of the pear
tree bow and flail,
new
green translucent leaves look like flowers themselves
// The cat grooms my arm in the
night,
her rough, dry, assiduous tongue appears in my dreams
as a mother // A motorcade blares through the
intersection,
flashing, honking, halting, streaming,
jerking
// The sky today a bright green murk // So the goblins came.
They pushed their way in and pulled
baby out,
leaving
another
all made of ice
// Pattern the clothes make when they are shucked
off in a heap, pattern in
the hamper, pattern
in the washer, round and around, which the
children
watch, rapt // A grey
shelf, its grey dust
// Mama,
do you see
me? Boo! // A rolled up rug
holds its pattern to itself, turns it
around
like a thought // A mite marches through folds
and whorls,
a mighty mite // Bite
an apple and
a star appears, bite a
star and a pile of bones
// Jump just a little
in the frame
// In the flesh
Notes
suddenly the flowers
“One thumb one thumb drumming on a drum”: Al Perkins, Hand, Hand, Fingers, Thumb, illus. Eric Gurney (New York: Random House, 1969).
all the trees will fall down
“women (even those who are bearers of children)…”: bell hooks, Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center (Boston: South End Press, 1984). The full sentence reads, “We who are concerned about feminism and militarism must insist that women (even those who are bearers of children) are not inherently non-violent or life-affirming.”
“The best is the bus. The bus is for us”: Michael Rosen, The Bus Is for Us!, illus. Gillian Tyler (Somerville, MA: Candlewick Press, 2015).
suddenly the flowers
“fireflies flicker float, crickets sing, night song”: Ruth Forman, Glow, illus. Geneva Bowers (New York: Little Simon, 2021).
“Although I have not helped or understood…”: Rachel Cusk, A Life’s Work: On Becoming a Mother (New York: Picador, 2003).
“A non-sequitur is a song of experience”: Lyn Hejinian, The Unfollowing (Richmond, CA: Omnidawn, 2016).
suddenly the flowers
“The word bound means several different things…”: Camille T. Dungy, Guidebook to Relative Strangers: Journeys into Race, Motherhood, and History (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2017).
“So the goblins came. They pushed their way in…”: Maurice Sendak, Outside Over There (New York: Harper & Row, 1981).
Claire Marie Stancek is a writer, editor, and educator. The poems included here are taken from her forthcoming Double Life (Omnidawn, 2027), which is a book of 36 poems, each in 36 sections, written in her 36th year, an homage to Lyn Hejinian’s My Life. Claire Marie’s poetry collections include Operating Moon (Pinsapo, forthcoming 2026), wyrd] bird (Omnidawn, 2020), Oil Spell (Omnidawn, 2018), and MOUTHS (Noemi, 2017). With Jane Gregory and the late and much-missed Lyn Hejinian, Claire Marie co-founded Nion Editions, a chapbook press that she and Jane now co-edit. Claire Marie lives in Philadelphia. Learn more at clairemariestancek.com
