The poem addresses the influence of memory on story and language, assimilating the narrative of the other with the narrative of the self. Memory creates meaning, which, in turn, constructs mythology. This theme continues throughout the book. We may find pieces of our own stories in those of the lepidopterist who lives alone, the fortuneteller who knows she will never marry, and the manic-depressive who wins the Nobel Prize for getting it on.
If grief is a motel where we each wait alone in a room, listening to the pillowcase seams unravel,. Here worry is not a sign of weakness; it is a common thread to which humanity is tethered. And the poem not only acknowledges the anxious, it recognizes them with deep respect.
Likewise, she suggests the anxious deserve veneration because they pay attention and exhibit concern. As the speaker identifies herself with the community of anxious, she invites us to enter the cathedral, to face and accept our worries, and to share them as part of a larger human consciousness:. We come to be consecrated in dizziness, nausea, insomnia, ecstatic to hear the chorus of heartbeats, those hymns racing.
Even error is sacred. Our advance is regret, six figures, but never enough for a down payment on restraint. Give us this day our daily second chance.
Let us atone like the Hindus who lift curses by marrying strays draped in yellow saris and garlands of jasmines and orchids. Take us to the pound in Leon County, to the gravel runs in the back.
Her poems reveal holiness in paying attention to the earthly and human rather than the heavenly and angelic. These poems revel in human empathy and desire for community. So many poetry collections are monotone—not this one. A hundred voices bubble out of these pages, each one beseeching you to listen. She also volunteers at Big Bend Hospice, providing respite care and reading to patients.
Prayer Book of the Anxious is her first book. Saint Joseph, stepfather of Christ, patron of moving, patron against doubt, lead us not to Seattle or LA or SoHo when unease thickens like lime calcifying. Lead us not into the temptation of sublets or studio walk-ups that get good afternoon light in our imagination. Patron of real estate agents, deafen our ears to the call of subdivisions with shorter commutes and condos our lovers will swoon to enter, with brass-fixtured bathrooms.
Patron of immigrants, let us think not on the president of Kazakhstan, who moved his capital to a frozen steppe. Let us not be quick to split when we bankrupt our small countries. O patron. You who know the summons of the journey, remind us of the friend who left town.
Still our hands as we pack. Remind us the roughest fabric of the self will end up folded like a sweater in the suitcase, pilled and raveled and transcendent. Because weevils writhe in her canister of rice and the dough under the cheesecloth veil refuses to rise and she draws three times a worn Five of Cups from the tarot deck. Email me at josephineyupoet gmail. View all posts by bridgetowriters. You are commenting using your WordPress. You are commenting using your Google account.
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