Because I was too mean to make him a brother,
my son has had to learn to hate alone.
I told my friend I’d only ever wanted
one child for reasons to do with the shape
of an arrow. But in truth I’m so disgusted
by what I know of brothers,
having given birth to a son of Adam, I
said “enough.” One son is not a brother;
he’s just a person. I thought this could mean he
would be free to indulge small pleasures like
rubbing patterns in carpet
under a piano and whistling without
being followed, but it appears
you can only turn cursive R’s with your finger
in the window alone in the backseat
for so long before you need to stab
someone in the hand with a real pencil.
If you have no brother, that hand is yours. I’m talking
here about the spirit, not
the body. When I said “hand,” I meant
your own soul will betray you. I meant by “real pencil,”
earth’s the right place for revenge
because there’s nothing in heaven
like gravity or spit. And here I am suiting up to duel
my brotherless child
because it’s time to drive
the rage out of him
into the tip of a sword he will try as pointlessly
as war or poetry to touch my heart with. Given a brother
this struggle would be settled by wrestling near the sharp edge of
something expensive. By withholding
a brother from him I have wrongly made
this only a person believe
the artifice of our house is the real love of him
by the world and now it’s my duty to drag him
backstage where any brother already
would have pushed his face against the grill
of a churning fan and forced him
to tell the blades his name
to hear its syllables severed by the throbbing wind
which itself will be unplugged and rolled away
at the end of the disappointing short run of a new play
that will never be mounted again.
I just strapped on a plastic chest plate that already has
an impression of a pair of breasts in it. My sister
was once a salesgirl
at Victoria’s Secret. There she was issued
a pink tape measure and tilted
the three-way mirror
to bring shoppers to understand
quantum optics and Borges, adjusting the panels such
that self-reflection could be monetized
according to the proprietary
algorithm that is the Secret itself sending
American girls back out into the mall
swinging their pink bags as if no one wants
to shoot them. Next comes the one-armed coat,
the plastron, enclosure that shares its name, from chainmail,
with the under-shell of a turtle
into which I have seen oracular,
indecipherable curses as if into
the final desk desperately stabbed
in response to such dull questions
like How many sheaves of wheat
will my brother-in-law’s upper field yield?,
even the pyromancer must have grown to resent the court he served,
and like the fire, unfulfilled,
anxious to get onto something of more substance
and drama, which is how boys get tricked out for war in epics,
not by passion, but boredom. You’ve seen them
standing around with nothing to do
so burning for action they’ll throw
anything at anyone, can
at squirrel, snake at
girl, their restlessness can be harnessed, suited up, and marched away. Beautiful,
beautiful chainmail, like a coat of suicidal bubbles,
unsheathed by freelance squires headfirst off the war-dead
along the bottom
margin of the Bayeux Tapestry
exposing each just a twisting line drawn
in faded thread naked under the hooves of his own horse. Doesn’t that chainmail,
sold to someone else, and someone else
again, ring the dread
of receiving one in a chain of so
many letters it is your fate to copy by hand ten times
in the fevered scriptorium of late girlhood for further ongoing
distribution everlasting to ten more girls
all of whom will receive good luck
if they just proceed themselves
to copy it—
if they just proceed to fold and envelope,
stamp and will themselves to drop it
in the blue mailbox, but the difficulty
of making an initial list of ten true friends
on whom the luck of the rest could depend
is the first step of many toward an emptiness
that frees us. Parent-child
fencing class meets in a converted warehouse. Shares with
stage and statecraft its
elemental vernacular.
Obsessed like all of us
with distance divided by speed compelled to death by need and desire,
the L.A. Times reports this
morning It took eleven hours to hand-embroider
the cotton poplin plastron
also called a dickey
the President of France wore
to the American President’s first state dinner.
A false front. Chainmail re:
oblivion, symbolism akin
to the reconfiguration
of the ribs of the spring lamb
they ate together into
an interlocking saber arch position
called by chefs
a guard of honor. A grand dismantlement
and reassembly of the ribcage around the hollow
where the heart was into a diorama of predation
named for how the ribs resemble
now a double rack of upraised ceremonial swords
into a long archway I once
saw a bride and bridegroom walk out the chapel through, into their
marriage. It excited me
to see the bride
enter a tunnel
of punishment and wonder like a
romantic grownup paddywhack
machine. We were tailgating at West Point with
family friends. Not guests of the groom
or bride, but of the public grass.
When the last pair of the groom’s brothers-
in-arms crossed swords to block her path and
another of the guard of honor
swatted her ass before they freed her, according to an old
military tradition I did not
anticipate,
but internalized
immediately, humiliation
did its job on me by proxy, and I was
a woman. The air was
so dense with wasps my mother placed a
decoy plate of our store-bought chicken nearby
under a tree. I held a dishonorable
family secret. No one knows how long
I kept it. No one could shake it out of me.
Now I have been fitted for something
like a straitjacket
and stepped into
it. What a different confidence
I am trussed in.
Someone from behind
up comes to zip me
lifting my hair, so intimately. I can
bend my foil into
a steel rainbow. Such
promise the world
has! But now we must salute
the apparent enemy and lower our masks. Am
I satisfied? I’m not. Therefore I advance
up the strip indifferently mythic
outfitted like a gentleman to teach
my child the atrocity of etiquette.