Mary Jo Bang

 Six poems

The Diary of a Lost Girl

Four diphtheria deaths, then fire, now five named lakes

with tranquil looks. Yet rampantly mad.

A lunatic shriek from a ruffian

child. One oar wrestled a mob of shore fringe, another,

the wet underbirth. And madness,

was it afflicted by daemons? Or stricken of god? Or vision,

thrown on an empty mirror, and there you were?

Later, upstairs — the lakes packed away

in pearly cases, the coppery spin of a high skyward

arrayed against a leaded window — the chiasmic

question recurred. She recalled shy little lessons

from a girl named Renee on the unattainable freedoms

of the flesh. In the dining room, they would crumple

over the table like paper angels

if anyone raised an eyebrow.

Otherwise, they leaned against scenery — looking down

at their Bonniedale shoes

as if they were in love with nothing else.

The Penguin Chiaroscuro

The acrobat on the rosinback circled the track

thrice then threw her a kiss.

She could see how well he’d been taught.

He still practiced, he said,

in order to better deserve his burnished fate.

You are rehearsing for what

play part? she asked. The doll’s house

gleamed in the small room until the lights were turned off.

Then sweet sweet sleep and the street

lamp gave up a glimpse of a carnival larger than life.

The carousel’s rotal motion took on speed then halted.

The lights were turned off. Someone was herding

the bumper cars into the stream,

eyes bright in their fendered faces.

The day was dry. The eyes were locked

in their sweet little coffins. The mind was struck

by needlespray. A cool soon (someone was speaking).

A change of clothes? the dreammaster asked.

Yes. She would be a blue new, the terrain of now,

a nice never waiting, one destined

for pleasure in that place between a small pinch of dusk

and the hey diddle diddle of dawn.

The kiss arrived just in time.

A breeze blew a window open on a distant afternoon.