Poetry: Two Poems by Carol Potter
Carol Potter, established in her reputation and talent, shares with us two poems that pursue associative motion with such comfortable grace. “Are You Going to Eat That?” may be the first mouth memoir told in a single stanza, and “What Month Is This? What Year?”—an excellent example of self-assured pantoum.
Are You Going to Eat That?
Some siblings spit into their mashed potatoes to claim
the white pile for themselves. Some into the milk.
There’s a hand reaching down the table. Pork chop
gone missing. Dog under table acting like Mr. Didn’t See A Thing.
It’s the first lessons in mouth that count. Open wide.
Clean the plate. That nipple you don’t remember
but were told you had the privilege of. The cookies
you stole from the freezer. Crumbs you dropped
on the way to the tree fort. One mouth after another.
Teeth coming in. Teeth falling out. The food you wouldn’t
eat. The first kiss. The first breast you touched. The first
tongue that went into your mouth. The first mouth to
mouth. The wet of it. The insertion. How mother
washed your mouth out with soap when you cursed.
When you said Jesus. When you said Shit. The words
that came out of there. What they made happen.
The lips you’ve kissed. What you touched with your tongue.
What a good mouth you have she said. What beautiful lips.
And these fish right now in front of me. The pursed mouths
puckering up the flakes I drop in for them. And what
of the one baby fish they ate? Tiny, coppery thing
one of them gave birth to, and one of them ate.
First its tail seemed to be missing. Then it was gone
altogether. I like my mouth. I like what’s on your plate.
Are you going to eat that?
What Month Is This? What Year?
Finally you end up being naked places you never imagined yourself naked
in plain sight of people before whom you were always impeccably clothed,
as in your sons and daughters learning now to touch your skin.
If your skin was your own business at this point, something private.
In plain sight of people before whom you were always impeccably clothed,
we touch your hair, smooth down the spot you missed with the brush.
Your skin no longer your own business at this point. Nothing private.
My brother and I exchange looks above your head. We nod at the doctor.
We touch your hair, smooth down the spot you missed with the brush.
Scolding you about the red marks on your forehead, I put your hands in your lap.
My brother and I exchange looks above your head. We nod at the doctor.
Doctor taps your back. Asks you questions. What month is this? What year?
He doesn’t scold about the red marks. You keep your hands in your lap.
Trained as you were as a child to sit up straight. Polite. Obedient.
Doctor listens to your heart. Asks you questions. What month is this, mother,
what year? You answer each question carefully as if there were comfort in it.
Trained as you were as a child to sit up straight. Obedient.
Your sons and your daughters learning now to touch your skin.
You answer each question thoroughly as if there were some comfort in it,
sitting up naked in places you never imagined yourself naked.
Carol Potter
Carol Potter, is the 2014 winner of the Field Poetry Prize for her 5th book of poems, Some Slow Bees from Oberlin College Press. Potter’s poems have appeared in Green Mountains Review, Field, The Iowa Review, Poetry, The American Poetry Review , The Kenyon Review, and many other journals and anthologies. She has recent poems in Hotel Amerika, The Massachusetts Review, The New England Review, River Styx, and poems forthcoming in Field, and in Poet Lore. She teaches for the Antioch University low-residency MFA program in Los Angeles, and for the Community College of Vermont.
