Raw Dogs and Other Metaphors
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April portrays herself surrounded by a pack of blood- thirsty metaphors in the opening poem of the book.
Some of these poems give the impression that the narrative voice is talking to us from inside a sensory- deprivation chamber... or a sky blue obelisk with an overstoked furnace- breathing hot at the edge of the hole.
Every day they make a smooth hustle for it.
She is severally wounded, but somehow still moving; while the encroaching, hungry circle keeps drooling for her last step.
I see the dogs from the corner of my eye.
When I was a girl, I used to pull
on my mother's jacket sleeve,
tug, tug.
She would keep walking,
her eyes pointed and sharp,
stabbing the vision straight ahead of her.
As I grew older, I did the same thing
to my little sister,
tug, tug, she went.
I kept my eyes straight ahead.
The reader can find an over looked meaning behind predatory habits of the wild i.e. hyenas, coyotes, hell even a school of sharks will circle their prey before going for the kill.
Life roams in circles around us,
some big, some uncomfortably small.
The raw dogs come for my meat.
...
I throw a fresh chop out onto the grass.
It will be just enough to distract them
for now.
But it is her existence, perhaps even yours, that makes concentric passes around the most tender part of her flesh, her mind and her spirit- ready with teeth to dig and claws for tearing.
***
Ghosts Still Walk My Dreams
Your ghost still drinks Bacardi 151
and chews tobacco.
It buries ex-girlfriends in the snow.
The first stanza feels more like an obscure description of a father figure rather than an ex- lover. If this is the case, then it adds some singular validity to the commonly unfounded assumption that women are often attracted to men who remind them of their daddies.
Remember when we were cats
and used to lick those dishes clean?
The 10th is seemingly out of place with the other metaphors used; yet lends deeper meaning to the title of the book when its entirety is taken into consideration. Obviously cryptic, but not without familiarity, the above takes on a more personal intonation and direction- meant to convey quiet desperation perhaps.
Just as soon as the reader has dispersed any confusion about the significant identity of who she's speaking about, new, untidy, reptillian- blooded anomolies appear.
It does not smell clean,
and it no longer makes love to me,
but it still walks
the frozen hallways of my dreams,
dragging its tail like a snake,
stroking the black of its chin.
***
Some of these poems give the impression that the narrative voice is talking to us from inside a sensory- deprivation chamber... or a sky blue obelisk with an overstoked furnace- breathing hot at the edge of the hole.
***
Small Lights
is addressed to the same assumptive man as its predecessor.
I just want to run and keep running
until my body parts fly into the snow banks,
until I am nothing left but lungs and heart.
However, because of the clues left in the snowbanks here and there, an astute reader will find that even though he is not daddy, he still holds influence.
The night light glows beside the bed
like a miniature sun.
It has carried me to sleep more than you have.
It has allowed me to cry more than you have,
but
it is not a significant source of heat.
He remains true; cold, but true all the same.
***
In
Skin
AMB portrays these men as the voice of reason, much like a calloused blister that makes someone leery of self- inflicted burns.
It was a disservice to the skin,
fingering those poems in the hot room.
When I emerged, red and crazy,
blisters swelled up over the length of my body
like angry spitting babies.
I brought the lotions, creams,
Mercury Hounds continues...
