Our discussion today about Audre Lorde's recount of her abortion reminded me of Beat poet Diane di Prima's "Brass Furnace Going Out," for obvious reasons, though in perspective of Lorde's abortion coming from an attempt to regain some personal autonomy, di Prima's takes on a different tone, as she was initially unwilling and only later convinced to abort by the father, Amiri Baraka.
BRASS FURNACE GOING OUT: Song, after an Abortion
I
to say I failed, that is walked outand into the arctic How shd I know where I was ? A man chants in the courtyard the window is open someone else drops a pecan pie into the yard two dogs down there play trumpet there is something disturbed about the melody.
and what of the three year old girl who poisoned her mother ?that happens, it isn't just us, as you can see --what you took with you when you leftremains to be seen.
II
I want you in a bottle to send to your fatherwith a long bitter note.I want him to knowI'll not forgive you, or him for not being bornfor drying up, quitting at the first harsh treatment as if the whole thing were a rent party& somebody stepped in your feet
III
send me your address a picture, I want tokeep in touch, I want to know how youare, to send you cookies.
do you have enough sweaters, is the winter bad,do you know what I've done, what I'm doingdo you carewrite in detail of your day, what time you get up,what you are studying,when you expectto finish & what you will do.is it chilly?
IV
your face dissolving in water, like wet claywashed away, like a rotten water lilyrats on the riverbank barking at the sightdo they swim ?the trees here walk right down to the edgeconversingyour body sank, a good way backI hear the otters will bring it to the surface
and the wailing mosquitoes even stop to examinethe last melting details of eyelid & cheeckbonethe stagnant bloodwho taught you not to tangle your hair in the seaweedto disappear with finesse
the lion pads along the difficult path in the heart of the jungleand comes to the riverbankhe paws your faceI wish he would drink it upin that strong gut it would cometo life. but he waits till he floatsa distance drinks clean water dances a little starts the long walk again
the silent giraffe lets loose a mourning cry fish surface your mouth and the end of your nosedisappear.
the water was cold the day you slipped into the riverwind ruffled the surface, I carried you on my backa good distance, then you slipped inred ants started up my leg & changed their mindsI fed my eyeballs to a carnivorous snake& chained myself to a tree to await your end.your face no sooner dissolved than I thought I sawa kneecap sticking up where the current is strongesta turtle older than stars walked on your bones
V
who forged this night, what steelclamps down?like gray pajamas on an invalidif I knew the name of flowers, the habitsof quadrupeds, the 13 points of the compass ......an aged mapmaker who lived on this streetjust succumbed to rheumatism
I have cut the shroud to measure bought the stone a plot in the cemetery set aside to bury your shadow take your head & go!& may the woman that you find know betterthan talk to me about it
VI
your goddamned belly rotten, a home for flies.blown out & stinking, the maggots curling your hairyour useless neverused cock, the pitiful skullthe pitiful shell of a skull, dumped in the toiletthe violet, translucent folds of beginning life
VII
what is that I cannot bear to say ?that if you had turned out mad, a murderera junkie pimp hanged & burning in lime alone & filled w/the rotting darkif you'd been frail and a little given to weirdnessor starved or been shot, or tortured in hunger campsit wd have been frolic & triumph compared to this --
I cant even cry for you, I cant hang onthat long
VIII
forgive, forgivethat the cosmic waters do not turn from methat I should not die of thirst
IX
oranges & jade at the shrinemy footprintswet on the stonethe bells in that clear airwind from the seayour shadowflat on the flat rocksthe priestess (sybil)spelling your namecrying out, behind copper doorsgiving birthatone silence, the air moving outsidethe door to the temple blowing on its hingesthet was the spirit she saidit passed above you
the branch I carry home is mistletoe& walk backwards, with my eyes on the sea
X
here in my room I sit at drawing tableas I have sat all day, or walkedfrom drawing table to bed,or stopped at windowconsidering the things to be doneweighing them in the hand and putting them downhung up as the young Rilke.here in my room all day on my couch a strangerwho does not speakwho does not take his eyesoff me as I walk & walk from table to bed.
and I cannot stop thinking I would be three months pregnantwe would be well out of here & in the suneven the telephone would be politewe would laugh a lot, in the morning.
XI
your ivory teeth in the half lightyour armsflailing about.that is youage 9 months sitting up & trying to stand cutting teeth. your diaper trailing, a formality elegant as a loincloth, the sweet stenchof babyshit in the house: the oilrubbed into your hair.blue off the moon your ghostshape mistaken as brken tooth your flesh rejected never to grow - your hands that should have closed around my fingerwhat moonlight will play in your hair ? I mean to say dear fish, I hope you swim
in another river.I hope that wasn'trebuttal, but a transfer, an attemptthat failed, but to be followed quickly by another suck your thumb somewhereDear silly thing, explodemake someone's colors.
the senses (five) a gift to hear,see , touch, choke on & lovethis lifethe rotten globeto walk in shoeswhat apple doesnt get at least this much ?
a caramel candy sticking in your teethyou, age threebugged bearing down on a sliding pond. your pulled tooth in my hand (age six)your hair with clay in it, your goddamn grin
XII
sun on the green plants, your prattleamong the vines.that this possibility is closed to us.my house is small, my windows look out on grey courtyardthere is no view of the sea.will you come here again ? I will entertain youas well as I can - I will make you comfortablein spite of new york .
willyoucome hereagain
my breasts prepareto feed you: they do what they can
----
Song for Baby-O, Unborn
Sweetheartwhen you break thruyou'll finda poet herenot quite what one would choose.
I won't promiseyou'll never go hungryor that you won't be sadon this guttedbreakingglobe
but I can show youbabyenough to loveto break your heartforever
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