Poems © 2012 Cynara GeisslerIllustrations © 2012 Tracy Hurren

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written permission from Hur Publishing.

Hand printed and bound in Canadawith assistance from

Malcolm Remple and Marie-Jade Menni.

Paperback isbn 978-0-9865459-2-4 Hardcover isbn 978-0-9865459-1-7

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PoEMs by CyNaRa GEIsslER

Hur Publ ishing, Montréal

First Communion

My mom takes my brotherand me to churchevery sundayExpectationsof little onesare humble:the only rule is that we must not strayfrom the sunday school room—where crepe paper clouds and a styrofoam sun hang in stasisover a green shag carpet—an ersatz indoor gardenwhere spring springs eternal

In the sanctuary parents resist evil, and tally trespasseswhile children are coachedunder painted blue skies to bendpipe cleaner rainbowsand coax animals—two of every typewe can think of—out of modeling clay

During advent the garden room growscold—a black sheet blots out the sun and a scratchy wicker matis spread on the carpetto simulate hayour teacher says we must preparefor the most important babyand we hang David’s star on the sheetand ready mangers by gluing cotton ballsin egg carton compartments

on Christmas Evewe draw the saviour’s faceon shelled peanutslay them in cardboard cradlesand present them to our parentsa study in contrastsMom places our mangersamong the delicate figuresin the blown glass nativity scenethat rules our mantelovernight, baby jesusgoes missingWhen confronted, my brother confesses“I ate him. He was a peanut.”Now a large walnut from the decorative nut bowlreplaces the son of Godbigger facelessimpossible to crack

sometimes my dad would drinkfrom the kid cupsand we would try to guesswhat he was drinkingbut would always say“go awayit’s just apple juice”even when there wasn’t anyin the fridge

one night my brother and Iwoke upMy dad was asleep in the chairby the windowNext to him on the stereowas a green kid cupand it was fullMy brother was excited: “I bet it’s pop!”and I dared himand he took a big gulpand he puffed up his cheeksand he threw up on my dad’s feet

For lunch the next day,my mom made real Kraft Dinnerand we drank Coca-Cola Classicin tall glasses

When my brother and I were smallwe were only allowed to drinkout of kid cupsa set of stout and sturdy plastic tumblersthat wouldn’t slip or tipat our house we only hadthem in the dark red, and blue, and greenWe didn’t have any of the new neon coloursthat all the other kids hadbut we didn’t mind too muchbecause everything you poured in our cups looked black and syrupy:a mysterious potion

We would play a gametake turnspouring somethingnasty like coffee or soy sauceThe other person would have to guesswhat was in the cup.If you couldn’t guessyou had to take a sipIf you still didn’t knowyou would have to drink the WHolE thing

Good shepherd

Every year until my 14th birthday (the year I give upthe hope of belatedly burstinginto some sort of smoldering beauty, stop searchingthe mirror for some sign that my limp ashyhair will give way to the long inkytendrils that coil around my mother’ssmall shoulders)I audition for the part of Maryin the sunday school Nativity Playand am cast, instead, as a shepherdthe part with the most dreadedof lines in the rich history of liturgicalmonologues written to be performedby the pre- and mid-pubescent:“I am a shepherd. I smell bad.”

The part of the most beloved(and bewildered) virgingoes to Cassandra or Gingerthe sort of girl who will someday wear a bra for a shirtand spend her evenings pressing herself up against a chain link fence or rolling around on some dead animalin front of a fireplace to convince youto pick up the phone

I am so sure that I will make an ideal Virginbecause in my 14 years on thisearth it has become painfully clear that no boywill ever look at me with sexin his eyes (I make a pact with my best friend—if we both get to 90and find ourselves untouched and alone, we will do the deed buta few weeks later he meets sarahseductive sarah supple sarah slutty sarahand I know that I amdoomed).

It’s not that you are wrong for the part, my sunday school teacher tells me, avoiding my eyes, it’s just that youare so right for the partof the shepherd…When you have been on the outsideyou learn to listen for the wordsthat are politely pushed to the cornersof speech.No one wants to tella 13-year-old that the best virginshave to wear just enough whore on theirsleeves so that the aging church dadsin the front row are forced to keep their hymnalsin their laps, find themselves movedto reach into theirwallets to top off the collection plate.

When I go home after the auditionsI tell my grandmathat I am the shepherd, again,because nobody wants me, willever want me,but she shakes her head and tells methat sometimes, as a woman,it is preferable to be overlooked andunderestimatedthat if she’d stayed on the farmin Winnipegosis she’d never have made itpast the tall boys who smokedbehind the barnand set fire to the hay baleswith a careless flick of their fingers.she would never have walked through the city with the sunon her shoulders but would havebeen swallowed, like so many of her cousinsdown the damp dark mouths of three or morechildren by the time she was my age

I have had years toconsider the curse of the rolethat Mary was not allowed to refuseimagined an aging Virgin and her still-reluctant Josephin bed in the middle of the nighther, hopeful, reaching tentativelyfor him in the darknessonly to have him turn away, complainof a headache, let out a fakesnore, the pressure of livingup to the almighty Memberalways too muchthough she has told him,every night since,that it really was Immaculate—no stains or scratches,sheets as smooth as whenshe made the bed that morning.

at 13 I find in my grandmother’swordsinchoate comfortand I lie in bedthe lumps in my mattressdigging into my backlike sharp lengths of hayI imagine smoky breathfast fingersand go over my linesuntilmorning.

i

My mom was always leavingmy father in small, stunted ways

upstairsso she could foldlaundry and listento Glass Tiger

insideso we could swingin the backyard without himblowing smoke in our faces

at homeso my grandparentswouldn’t ask her whyhe wasn’t at work

in Winnipegbecause he couldn’t promisenot to swear in front of snow Whiteand Donald Duck

like maybe if she left himout enoughhe might evaporate

but he just got louderthirstier more determinedto take up space

on sunny weekendshe’d crank the radioscream and stack his emptiesalong the front porchbrown scabs on the smooth whiteslab of pavement

or he’d sleep stone nakedin the living roomface pressed against the glassof the picture windowbloodshot sallow sun catcherswallowing up all the light

My brother and I tried to watchas uniformed men loaded himinto the flashing ambulancebut my mom drew the blinds and said

“your dad has to go away…to get better”

ii

My mom told us “nowyou have a decision to make…”and we had read allthe Choose Your Own Adventure bookswe were ready when she offered

“your dad can come back orwe can get a kitty.”

ludwig & Marianna

they meet at the dance hall she in a dark green dress that rustles and shimmers when she moves ostrich plume perched in the perfect curl behind her earlobe he in bright plaid, lapels sharp against his collar bone cuffs pushed up to his elbow, anchored by the hard angles of his forearms she leans over, coos in his ear voice light and airy like the tips of wings ich heisse marianna und sie? and he puts a firm hand on her shoulder, traces the long line of her arm to grasp her satin fingers, and smiles dein Verlobter draws her out onto the polished wood floor where they carve rings around the other couples his strong steady frame the root that keeps her from slipping underfoot

she compliments him onthe precision of his stepsand he strokes the featherin her hair slides his palmin the tidy groovebetween her shoulder bladestells herthat he is an architectthat it is his civil dutyto be exactand she plants kissesalong his jawlipstick petals blossomingin the open windowimagining the perfect homehe could buildfor her

sophisticated, spirited septuagenarian seeks female companion for vigorous argumentsover early dinners.Must enjoy mixed nuts and accordion music.Must always part her hairon the left wear coral lipstickand a butterfly brooch.Must deftly section out a pink grapefruitso that no pulpever clings to the skin Must wake up at 7 amevery morning and put on a purple plaid housecoatthe kettle for teaa pot of water for hard-boiled eggsand the morning show on CJob. Must start every anecdote with the phrase“I had to laugh when…”and hum “lady of spain”when she waters the plantsMust nod in agreement when I complain about the squirrels hanging offthe bird feederin winterbut scatter pecanson the snowand watch them frolicfrom the kitchen windowwhen she thinks I’ve fallen asleepin front of the news.Must remind me to take my eyedropsand to plug in the carbefore bed.Must remind methat Chess Clubis every second saturdayat 2:30 pm

why talk of lovewhen we are panting like fluffypuppies, our shiny pink tongueshooking together

Here in the prairies we fallin line like the fence postsand telephone poles that stand sentinelon the highway we become rootedin repetitionour lives a current that sprawls, uninterruptedinto the distanceopen sky offering no escape fromthe eyes of a vengeful godEven the river is our enemyalways seeping into our rutssloshing at our ankles, deadly undertowlike sticky molten taffy threatening to drag us further into the centre of our exposedselves. I could settle here but you won’t (and I would have to watch you walkaway for days, as the old joke goes)but I worry that it is this citywith its unbridled wind and steady pulse and river pull that keeps us together continually smashes us into each other like rare-earth magnetsworry that once we step off this meridian we will be permanently knocked out of alignment

We aren’t talking about movingbut I know

the narrative scrollsbehind your eyes slick streets

and fog lamps flicker the lengthof your optic nervebig plans for pretty

homes and six-figure incomes flashlike pennies in your pupils

We inherit our parents’ dreams just liketheir diseases

I think I want the same things:cleverly planned meals and an ocean

that brings warm weather—though I hear the tall trees block out the sun

and that it rains most days, but still— a chance to lose myself in rising mist

have it swirl around my legs as I walk (fog innately futuristic

and alien to me, supernatural smoke that pours out of spaceships, surrounds Martian

invaders in middle-of-the night movies)

It’s cool if you never remembereither of my middle namesor that I loathe ketchupanywhere near my eggs

I won’t take it personallyif you’re hours latefor our wedding ceremonyor fail to pick me upafter major surgery

stay for the weekend?ain’t no thangyour bong-huffing wine-swilling plate-hurling mothercould move into our bedroomfor all I’d care

just as long as whenwe’re togetheryou want me the waythat German pigeon wantedthe Kaiser roll wedged in the tram trackon that sweltering Tuesday in July 2002so intent on drawing me outand into youthat only a speeding street carcould knock you sidewaysand even thenjust barely

It’s cool if you never remembereither of my middle namesor that I loathe ketchupanywhere near my eggs

I won’t take it personallyif you’re hours latefor our wedding ceremonyor fail to pick me upafter major surgery

stay for the weekend?ain’t no thangyour bong-huffing wine-swilling plate-hurling mothercould move into our bedroomfor all I’d care

just as long as whenwe’re togetheryou want me the waythat German pigeon wantedthe Kaiser roll wedged in the tram trackon that sweltering Tuesday in July 2002so intent on drawing me outand into youthat only a speeding street carcould knock you sidewaysand even thenjust barely