Episode 111: What Lingers

There’s a lot packed into this episode, Slushies, including sibilance and balancing gravity with a light touch. Differing perspectives and the resonance of history, both real and mythical, cascade through a trio of poems by Danielle Roberts. Jason worries that his erudition has collapsed momentarily, Kathy loves the rush of wanting to immediately re-read a poem, and Samantha reminds us of an Anne Carson line: “Aristotle says that metaphor causes the mind to experience itself in the act of making a mistake.” Oh, and Marion brings to life the idea of hearing a baby’s cries in the ceiling when she recounts living in the apartment below a family with newborn triplets! Links to things we discuss that you may dig: Jeanann Verlee’s Helen Considers Leaving Troy George Eliot’s Middlemarch Anne Carson’s Essay on What I Think About Most Elizabeth Bishop’s Collected Letters Jason Schneiderman’s How the Sonnet Turns: From a Fold to a Helix, APR Volume 49, Issue 3 British Antarctic Survey: Ice cores and climate change The Norton Reader Smartless Podcast (Jason Bateman, Sean Hayes, Will Arnett) This episode is brought to you by our sponsor Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show. At the table: Kathleen Volk Miller, Marion Wrenn, Samantha Neugebauer, and Jason Schneiderman Danielle Roberts is a queer poet from California. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, DMQ Review, Okay Donkey, Prairie Schooner, Reed Magazine & others. When not writing poetry, she can be found drinking too much tea & pestering the nearest cat. Read more of her at sonnetscribbler.com. Socials: Instagram: @sonnetscribbler How can I leave this behind? after Jeanann Verlee’s Helen Considers Leaving Troy after a floral gin cocktail Do I want to live and die my whole life here— buried in county lines—or is it time to stretch the map? There’s more to plan than simply running away. while holding my niece Picking up the baby doesn’t help: I smell her hair & wonder if she thinks of me when I’m out of sight. Will she know? Her eyes stare into the distance along with mine. Maybe she travels in her dreams. Maybe she lives elsewhere. while eating dinner Gorging myself on routine, I chew bread & think about the bagels in New York. I live these sour- dough rituals—oven baked in centuries of families. A young tradition bound by water on all sides. They say it’s in the water. Doubtful, I gnaw on my nails. when people ask if I’ll have kids Come on, Karen—I just blew up my life & you’re asking if I’m ready to be a sacred vessel? The only answer I can give is to flee far away from anyone who had dreams for me or thought I could be marriage material. Go where all folks care about is which street I live above in the gridlocked graph or whether I’m walking fast enough. Blend. It would be easier than questions of barreness. when my ex wants to get back together Absolutely not. from the freeway exit Behind the wheel of my car, I carve trenches again—circle and retrace my path—map the small universe on foot, pace my cage. Maybe I take to the night sky or simply head east until I hit water. Gorges and grooves heal, scarred cutting board life. Do I keep driving? Where do I even go from here? These dreams that weren’t mine festering in my wake. What city takes such hazardous rot? How do I leave my family behind? How do I tell them I’m already gone? Extracting memories[1] Speak to me in layered tongues of bitten snow, slow molars carved with frost collected in the valleys between your teeth. The scientist bores a core— plucks the long memory from each glacier—this meter holds your first bicycle ride, this a bridal veil of volcanic ash from Pompeii, six cylinders of centuries trespass the sterile air—blink at the unforgiving sun. From the dentist chair, you look up at the light and this persistent body shrinks—cracked with age and use. Our indestructible jaws crumble with heat, losing enameled eons to inaction, forgetting to stitch our gums with floss. It’s far too late to mend our habits now: best to preserve what we can. Each line, a thought pulled out of context— precious archive of time before tales. We transcribe the answers to our final test without any chance of knowing the questions. Reassurance 1— My cat startles & I tell her nothing bad is happening, but we both know that’s a lie on a large enough scale. She hears the neighbors’ doors slam, the child in the ceiling crying like an injured mouse. She knows footfalls on the landing lead to the uninvited lead to us coaxing her to accept strangers in her home. She knows the rush of sirens down Oak or shouts from the narrow park must mean something in the same way we all know that one thing always leads to another. She turns a pale eye towards me as if to say just because it’s not happening to me doesn’t mean it’s not happening. 2— As we wade into the cold mountain lake, my sister promises me nothing’s going to touch your feet—maybe some grass or a fish, but I’ve never seen anything bad here. She shifts the baby to her other hip & walks deeper. Her husband rows away from the widening rings of sunscreen filming the top of the swampy water, oil slick of caution. I know she loves me. Later, I scramble onto the inflatable raft & hold the baby & my breath. My sister stays rooted in the water—extracting the implanted leeches from between my toes—doesn’t glance down at her own feet. Not even once. Her husband saw the signposts on the shore & told no one. He thought they didn’t apply anymore: he’s never noticed anything in the waters. 3— My boss sends a message before an important meeting to ask if I can still lead in light of the news. I reassure him yes, I’m in California—I’m not affected for now. In the crowded room, the men make small talk, but have nothing to say. [1] Ice cores and climate change - British Antarctic Survey