The American Poetry Review
Stephanie Brown

Library

Potions and lotions, which all smell gross,
And regressions to the past, the past self
Pierced tongue, pink hair, potty mouth
Voodoo doodoo, Wiccan crap, fake religion borne out
Of the Englishman's loss of the oral trad.
Taken up by this Betty Page-tattooed elf
Doing spells via the internet which I can see
Over her shoulder--me--the neutral
Bringer-to-info in the building of the free
Housing and retrieval of information and so I go
Like a psychopomp between
The conscious and the unconscious world, bringing her, and the guy
Who gambles away online
His Social Security checks each time and therefore sleeps on our patio
And help each one "log on" to "cyberspace"
Words invented by William Gibson, an American novelist, I believe;
And help them print their pages from the screen.
Here you go.
I stand beside, with no opinion, with no interpretation, and besides,
There is someone else now who needs a guide
To oil painting and here he needs
A book by an author which is translated from the Thai
Language and the fourth request today for Romeo and Juliet in pbk.
Our drunk walks to the front door carrying today's newspaper
Excuse me, you can't take that out of here.
He is, he thinks, my pal. He pats me on the back: I'm busted.
I have no opinion.
I cannot interpret taxes. Here is the form.
I cannot give you advice for that, sir.
My mother has Alzheimer's. I need to know.
How can I find out about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome?
The baby we adopted . . . I offer her a tissue
And we walk to the shelf.
This is just a house.
I will guide you between worlds--take this--here it is--
But now I must go.
Now there is someone else who needs
That stupid trashy book by a misguided author-freak that everyone's reading.
Yes, we have it.
I give it with no advice and no opinion.


The Satanists Next Door

What is that? Is that a kid? Is that Tom?

No, it's her.

Eew, I think that's a whip.
No, it's a hand coming down hard.
No, listen, there's like a wind-sound to it.

I need to go to the bathroom.

That one was fake.

Are you still awake?

She probably has to do that to get him to finish.
Listen: he sounds like an angel.
No one has ten orgasms in twenty minutes.
I can't tell.
Oh yeah, a lot of those were fake.
They're up all night doing meth and they have to have sex all the time.

Should we do it now?
Did that make you horny?
No, but we are awake. In fact, it's creepy to hear people.
She's a moaner.

It's getting light out.
Close the windows.
The seals are barking. I like that sound.
Can you hear the parrots?
Oh, yeah.
They live across the street in the canyon.
I think I smell that chemical smell.

Close the windows.
Do you think they ever put spells on us?
Whatever you think is happening, it's not happening.
It's all a lie.
Um hmm.

It sort of scares me.
Freedom of religion.
Yeah, you're right.
And we have the Jehovah's Witnesses on the other side. It balances things.
I'm going to put a holy card of St. Michael on the fence between us.
God will protect us.

Turn on your side.


Snobs

I was supposed to worship you from afar
Like a star
Admire your new car
Your cigar
Your aplomb, brusqueness, memory- and money-enhancing skills,
Your life which lacks any need for prescription pills blah blah blah;

I was supposed to understand that your superior children
Were superior in every way to my own
Mine, being mine, would be . . .

Reprehensible.
It was understood that I
was supposed to fawn over their deeds on golf courses and in private school musicals
As if I were not mothering my own kids, buying my own cars
As if I were not wholly alive but in that state of mind played by the hired
Who play the role of service worker 8-5
There to receive your retail returns and diatribes on quality of service
They who pretend to be grateful to be in your presence as if

should some of your greatness fall on them like a drop of rain from a tree
and quench a parched throat, salve a dark soul as your soul shone

bright as the sun: a person should be merely grateful to receive that drop 
         of water, that beam of light, mi'lord, and curtsey.
I don't know if you figured out that I was merely being polite.
I was not worshipping you.
I was boosting your ego, I thought.
A smart thing to do, on my part.
Doing you a favor. Playing that part. Because we were thrown together
And this is what I did--like all service workers do--in order to survive my lot.
As if I did not have my own secret thoughts:
Thoughts about the superior state of my soul, my mind, and my art.


brown Stephanie Brown is the author of Allegory of the Supermarket (University of Georgia Press), and her poems and essays have appeared in many recent anthologies. She was awarded an NEA Fellowship in 2001. These poems are from an unpublished manuscript, Domestic Interior.


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