This week’s poem from Slate is rather aptly titled Gun Control, and that is all I’ll say on the matter as this is not a political blog, but rather a literary one. This poem is written by Carol Muske-Dukes and, if you check out the Slate website, you can hear her read the poem as well. Especially this week, I’d think it would be nice to sit down and just listen to a poem read by its author.
According to her website, Carol Muske-Dukes is a professor at the University of Southern California and a former Poet Laureate of California. Her latest book of poetry is Twin Cities (Penguin Poets Series, June 2011). Her other recently released books are two anthologies: Crossing State Lines: An American Renga (co-edited with Bob Holman, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, May 2011) and The Magical Poetry Blimp Pilot’s Guide (co-edited with Diana Arterian, Figueroa Press, June 2011). Many of her collections have been “New York Times Most Notable Books” or listed in the current year’s “Best Books”.
Gun Control, by Carol Muske-Dukes
When the older brother, horsing around, opened fire
With the 12 gauge and shot his little brother in the back,
my Aunt Anna pressed her open
Hand over the wound, over the blown right lung.
Blood stuttered up
through her fingers. As he began to slide away,
her hand hard-flat against that death.
At Emergency, they had to pry
It away. He survived that night.
When he takes his shirt off today, at the lake,
You can see the bleach-white stretch where
No hair grows and the skin thins to
Her imprint—a hand-span—just under his shoulder
Where a wing, if we had wings, might begin to unfurl.
I said, “He’s going to hurt someone”—and the Director,
As he had been instructed by those far above the precincts
of the Workshop, told me nothing could be done until he did.
So he wrote things that spun his hurt and jagged plan round
Each other like the knife feints of the blood-masked Jack
the Ripper—“surgeon in the bee-loud glade,” he wrote.
If the blood jet was Poetry, Jack would sip demi-liters from
My neck and the neck of the girl sitting next to him.
He shouted out in my class that we were married, he
Would prove it “someday.” Skipping his meds,
Flinging a lit smoke. At the campus bar, he
broke the bottle kept in his pack—vaulted
over to cut the bartender’s throat. They tackled
him. But he shook free, reached for the gun,
ready to open fire. They called the Psych
Center there “Workshop East”: I remember that.
Late at a Hollywood dinner party, he leaned in to me,
Hair over one eye, smiling in that boyish seductive style,
So familiar from the Big Screen. Seriously drunk.
He was telling me what he feared most “on this earth”:
“Waking up in bed to find someone standing over me
with a gun.” Later I heard how he did it—
ln bed, pistol to his temple. When the man with the Glock
floated over him: he knew he was all he’d ever feared.
I hope you enjoyed this week’s poem from Slate and I hope it made you think. Stay tuned for another next week!
— Mary Egan, Jet Fuel Blog Editor