Jeanne Wagner
Although I never intentionally set out to write a gender poem, I was raised a Catholic in the fifties when the false dichotomy of man as spirit, woman as flesh was in full swing. Both these poems are a form of rebellion against this ancient form of subjugation.
Eve’s Version
It was when he told me I was made from Adam’s
rib, not his heart or his gut or his brain,
or that special appurtenance between his legs,
but a single rib from the thicket of bone
where animals dive their heads down after dark
to gorge on the flesh of their prey.
Because I found out I was not the first one born,
or even the second, but made from a bare bone,
a dog’s idea of generation, I took the fruit and
ate it, not as some have said,
with small salacious bites, the sweet juice trickling
down my chin, but
sitting cross-legged under that very tree, my
favorite when in flower,
its limbs all covered in a pale froth of blossom.
With new exactness, I picked the fruit,
cut it in half, pulled the pit from its center and
placed it on the ground.
Then I halved those halves, again and again,
arranging each small curved slice
in a tangent around the stone, like the rays of
the sun, the petals of a simple flower.
Only when I had done all this, did I pick up
each piece and force myself to eat,
bite by bitter bite.
The Dance of the Seven Veils
Behind the torch lights, upturned faces tilt
And leer like sallow lilies in the dark.
The body and the mind are separate skills.
I’ve learned my motions well, I play my part.
Their faces leer like sallow lilies in the dark.
I wear one veil for each two years I’ve lived.
I’ve learned my motions well, I move by heart.
I give only what I’m asked to give.
I shed one veil for each two years I’ve lived.
You show one thing, another is concealed.
I give only what I’m asked to give.
Teach me what I’m not supposed to feel.
You show one thing, another is concealed.
A veil covers up my mouth but not my eyes.
Tell me what I’m not supposed to feel.
I drape myself in veils, my veils all lies.
One veil hides my mouth but not my eyes.
I watch the platters where the fish heads stare,
Indifferent to my veils, my veils all lies.
The dead have nothing more to bear.
I watch the platters where the fish heads stare
From the flattened silver circles of their eyes.
The dead are severed from their cares,
They’re deaf to the rhythm of our knives.
Fish heads stare from the circles of their eyes.
Someone strips the scales, casts them to the side.
Along the spines and ribs, the sound of knives.
The heads left whole, the bodies opened wide.
I shed my final veil and toss it to the side.
The body and the mind are separate skills.
Even after death the eyes are opened wide.
Like sallow lilies, our upturned faces wilt.
"Eve's Version" first published in Marin Poetry Anthology
"The Dance of the Seven Veils" first published in Blue Unicorn
Jeanne Wagner is the recipient of several national awards, including most recently, the Ann Stanford Prize and the 2009 Briar Cliff Review Award. Her poems currently appear in South Carolina Review, Smartish Pace and New Millennium among others. She is the author of four poetry collections, including The Zen Piano-Mover, winner of the 2004 Stevens Manuscript Award. She is on the editorial staff of the California Quarterly.