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
More By This Poet
Riddance
Ok, we’ve rendered
the rendition
how often?
What were we trying
to get rid of?
We exposed the homeless
character of desire
to the weather.
Shall we talk
about the weather
worsening four times
faster than expected,
eight times,
until the joy
of pattern recognition
kicks in?
Until the crest
...
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
love a flame,
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.
More Poems about Arts & Sciences
The Racist Bone
I know this is a real thing, because
When I was a kid, my big sister took me
To the Capitol Theater, in my hometown
Of Rochester, NY,
And there was a movie that afternoon,
The Tingler, which starred Vincent Price,
And what I remember best...
The Last Word
I am a door of metaphor
waiting to be opened.
You’ll find no lock, no key.
All are free to enter, at will.
Simply step over the threshold.
Remember to dress for travel, though.
Visitors have been known
to get carried away.Illustration by Shadra Strickland