SIOBHAN HARVEY

 

Caesura

 

Upon the destruction of a wasp nest

I watch at windows I cannot open, 
seal the doors with wax, I think, 
 
& ready to revel in the death of these imperfect speakers. 
While the blood of sows, lizards’ legs, resmethrin & tetrachloroethylene 
 
bubble in a cauldron close-by, my accomplice injects cocaine 
through a vein. It creeps everywhere, 
 
blocking his nose as if it were a nest. 
His dust hates wasp communes & collectives, 
 
thinking them selfish in their selflessness. 
Then bearing a Sorex smile, he 
 
pumps his tank again & again, 
as though bailing out a sinking ship, 
 
not scuttling one, as though pumping water 
to end a fire, not lighting the flames. 
 
Quickly the wasp-city burns. 
A sulphur of cinders falls all jade & topaz. 
 
I see my accomplice play his violin at a villa in Antium. 
His tune turns the pineapple wasp-home rancid with its decay. 
 
Seeing the wasps swaddled in mortuary bands, I wonder 
if I might excuse my actions by claiming greater intelligence 
 
or more right to life? No. 
My happiness springs from open windows 
 
& knowing that the shrill of wasp cacoethes 
has been brought to a close.  
 
Now it’s too late to experiment with the truth. 
From the caecum, where once life & energy, silence 
 
like white dust, scum or the eggs of ants, 
clings to the walls & clouds the air. 
 

Borrowing Anne Sexton’s Attire

 
I’m thinking of a black dress. 
 
I’m thinking of nakedness. 
 
I’m thinking of becoming an Anne Sexton wannabe who, like a white-trash Marilyn
clone, reminds the world of how dead skin is shed as ruthlessly as a poet discarding
words for the sake of the rhyme. 
 
I’m thinking of a song, of The Ballad of the Lonely Masturbator. Serenading myself till
twilight, I drink my whisky neat. 
 
I’m thinking of feet and metre, of dactyls and trochaics, of a villanelle my friend Sylvia
stole; it was a lament we shared. 
 
I’m thinking of a woman’s voice, of bitterness callused by bad choices, bad marriages
and bad men. 
 
I’m thinking of a tour, of readings where I wear a red gown and nothing underneath. My
cigarette half-cocked, I listen to an inner voice, tender as a girl’s, persuading me to
soften my delivery. 
 
I’m thinking of the children I never bore. 
 
I’m thinking of letting go. Not an oven, but a closed garage and a car. 
 
I’m thinking of the other side, of the paradise of having years trickle from my bones
until old age has drained me, a borehole drawing off the sap. 
 
I’m thinking of a Massachusetts Pine. Return me to it; bury me amongst its roots. 
 
I’m thinking of a suit, skin-tight as a coffin or a collected works. The Complete Poems:
an epitaph. No escape; the end. 
 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Of Scottish, Irish and unknown ancestry, Siobhan Harvey was born in 1973. She has recently published work in Landfall 215, NZ Listener, Meanjin (Aus), More Sweet Lemons: An anthology of Sicilian writing in English (Canada), Snorkel 7 (Aus) and Swings and Roundabouts: Poems about Parenting. Her poetry and prose have been broadcast on Radio New Zealand. She was runner-up in the inaugural Bernard Gadd Memorial Poetry Prize (2008). She is the incoming poetry editor of Takahe magazine and teaches creative writing courses at The University of Auckland.

 

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