By Rae Armantrout
1
“must represent the governess
for, of course, the creature itself
could not inspire such terror.”
staring at me fixedly, no
trace of recognition.
“when the window opened of its own accord.
In the big walnut tree
were six or seven wolves …
strained attention. They were white.”
(The fear of cloudy skies.)
like strangers! After five years
Misgiving. Misdoubt.
2
(The fear that one is dreaming.)
The moon was shining, suddenly
everything around me appeared
(The fear of)
unfamiliar.
Wild vista
inside or near the home.
(Dread of bearing a monster.)
If I failed to overlook the torn cushions,
three teapots side by side,
strewn towels, socks, papers—
both foreign and stale.
3
when I saw the frame was rotten,
crumbling away from the glass,
in spots, in other places still attached
with huge globs of putty.
The doctor forced me to repeat the word.
Chimera. Cold feet.
scared and unreal looking at buildings.
The thin Victorians with scaly paint,
their flimsy backporches linked
by skeletal stairways.
4
After five years
(The fear that you are not at home.)
I was sitting in the alcove where I never sit
when I noticed a single eye,
crudely drawn in pencil,
in a corner near the floor.
The paint was blistering—
beneath it I saw white.
5
Sparrows settle on the sagging wires.
(Fear of sights not turned to words.)
Horrific. Grisly.
“Rumplestiltskin!”
Not my expression.
Not my net of veins
beneath thin skin.
(A morbid dread of throbbing.)
Of its own accord
Rae Armantrout, “Xenophobia” from Veil: New and Selected Poems. Copyright © 2001 by Rae Armantrout. Reprinted with the permission of Wesleyan University Press.
Source: Veil: New and Selected Poems (Wesleyan University Press, 2001)
Poet Bio
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Rae Armantrout, one of the founding members of the West Coast group of Language poets, stands apart from other Language poets in her lyrical voice and her commitment to the interior and the domestic. Her short-lined poems are often concerned with dismantling conventions of memory, pop culture, science, and mothering, and these unsparing interrogations are often streaked with wit.
More By This Poet
Twilight
Where there’s smoke
there are mirrors
and a dry ice machine,
industrial quality fans.
If I’ve learned anything
about the present moment
•
But who doesn’t
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the way one leaps
into being
full-fledged,
then leans over
to chat
•
Already the light
is retrospective,
sourceless,
is losing itself
though the trees
are clearly limned.
Pinocchio
Strand. String.
In this dream,
the paths cross
and cross again.
They are spelling
a real boy
out of repetition.
•
Each one
is the one
real boy.
Each knows
he must be
wrong
about this, but
he can’t feel
how.
•
The fish
and the fisherman,
the pilot,
the princess,
the fireman and
the ones on fire.
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The man I pulled tonight
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When I felt him watching
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He gave me lunar
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When I answered him,
I smiled to his face.
He wore the moonlight
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