Her book

p o e m s

éireann lorsung

m i l k w e e d e d i t i o n s

© 2013, Text by Éireann LorsungAll rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews,

no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Milkweed Editions, 1011 Washington Avenue South, Suite 300, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55415.

(800) 520-6455www.milkweed.org

Published 2013 by Milkweed EditionsPrinted in the United States of America

Cover design by Gretchen Achilles/Wavetrap DesignCover art © Kiki Smith and Universal Limited Art Editions, Inc.

Author photo by Jonathan Vanhaelst13 14 15 16 17 5 4 3 2 1

first edition

Milkweed Editions, an independent nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from the Bush Foundation; the Patrick and Aimee Butler Foundation; the Dougherty Family Foundation; the Driscoll Foundation; the Jerome Foundation;

the Lindquist & Vennum Foundation; the McKnight Foundation; the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund, and a grant from the

Wells Fargo Foundation Minnesota; the National Endowment for the Arts; the Target Foundation; and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. For a full listing of Milkweed Editions supporters, please visit www.milkweed.org.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lorsung, Éireann, 1980- [Poems. Selections] Her book : poems / Éireann Lorsung.—First edition. pages cm ISBN 978-1-57131-433-8 (alk. paper) I. Title. PS3612.O77H47 2013 2012042168 811›.6—dc23

Milkweed Editions is committed to ecological stewardship. We strive to align our book production practices with this principle, and to reduce the impact of our operations in the environment. We are a member of the Green Press Initiative, a nonprofit coalition

of publishers, manufacturers, and authors working to protect the world’s endangered forests and conserve natural resources. Her book was printed on acid-free 30% postconsumer-waste paper by Versa Press, Inc.

27

First principles

In the beginning was the labyrinth.

It was the size of a continent, the insideof a jar she carried in her shoulderbag, swinging while she walked.

Sometimes she didn’t know it was therebut underneath everything wallswould rise, holdup construction of new roads, and she would reknow: it was there, shehad seen it. The labyrinth covered

everything in questions.It opened windows to the seawhere no sea should have been.She entered it daily:

she never wore a watch, she carriedNothing with her, or she carriedher knitting, she emptiedthe canvas bag at every turnand filled it with sand, guitarstrings, replicas of Machu Picchuand Neruda’s house. Nothing

28

was enough. The labyrinthfollowed her from one edgeof the world to another.It was all around her, like her mother’s love.Every morning she reenteredthe labyrinth from the labyrinth.The smell of the sea that wasn’t there.The clicking shadows of laurel treesand their scent; she was fullwithout eating. Outside were shores and strawboats and the ends of strings leadingfrom the center. The jarshe carried was lighter and lighter as the labyrinth went out into the world.

29

Historical fragment

She began to find playing cards everywhere and so she took to looking for the ones she liked best (the Queen of Hearts, the Ace of Hearts). She found cards with dotted designs, cards prisoners had drawn by hand, Bicycle cards, pinochle cards, cards from airline passengers’ handbags, cards given out by realtors as mnemonics for the houses they tried to sell. She found several cards from the 1700s. She rarely had to look for them: they were stuck in hedges, strewn across otherwise tidy front lawns. Early in the morning she would walk out of the little brick house and there would be one lying on the pavement or floating innocently down from the chess-queen chimney pots. No one seemed to miss the cards she took. They were all playing with full decks.

30

Pinkfor Sriparna

Everything turning

to fuchsias hanging over stone walls

a deep, bright color, eight stamens

dianthus, stitchwort,the smell of cinnamon

the inside of a kimono a surprise of cherry blossoms & shibori

sweetshop’s matching jarsof rhubarb-custard candymica-flecked dust for eyelids—

crushing petals in a pocketwas like blushing—

She wanted to touch everythingover & over

31

A collection of beauties at the height of their popularityfor Mulysa

Ghosts like young hazelnuts, lichentrailing from trees, checkerlilies, whitecolumbine that gets toolittle sun.

A park in the middleof a city, a mile,a fairy tale.

Here are two girlswith round fansrabbits on leashesstriped socksone glimpse of eyeletwool that scratches.

32

And you have a collarI love, red dots& yellow dots, a gray field.

My egg-blue dress,your chartreuse sweater,satin hairbow.

Piles of thread, cuttings,velvet nap rubbedback with a hand,corner of moon in an upstairs window.

33

And so the last day came, and the last hour of the last dayfor Shani

Our dreams of snow—

It was as though we were on a ship in the middle of the prairie

It was as though the housewas sighing or breathing

Stocks of flower seed, vegetable seed, wool blankets, quilts our mothers made,

pressed leaves, books of poems, teain packets, sugar flavored

with petals, paper birds and animalswith pin joints, scissors, glue,

paints, teacups, colored shoes, a pileof silk scraps.

34

The most gentle apocalypse in the world

We woke up, the sky was blue.

35

Bee summer

The basement roomlined with sun

full summergreen

When clover isbees are

Air & pollen in the lung

Bees will always be therewild rose pinkening outside

and noweven in winter

there is no winter

36

City pleasure

It sweetens everything: a busker’s movement, A chord to C chord, Porte de Saint-Ouen, the first heady rush of cars, gray lifting off the city.

If you have never been to Paris, go there in November, wear a heavy scarf printed with shibori, wear an overcoat. Walk along the Seine, past booksellers, souvenir shops, women wearing red, and Notre Dame.

The rer through Saint-Denis.

Sitting near people you don’t know, you will want to touch them. Your body will hold itself from touching them.

Leaves from plane trees yellow in the gutter. In Montmartre, the same leaves yellow against sky.

—I love what I love for what I know’s inside.

37

England, or the continent I had in mind when I came herefor Caroline

Every bird is a sister of mine—can you believeI never saw horses running before I came to this island,and nothing but their own good sense keeps themfrom falling into the ocean? At the edge of your country along train tracks that run from Devonto Cornwall, someone set up a howl and it’s been going longer than we remember, or our mothersremember, or their mothers.Where else could a woman turninto flowering rosebush? Allso peripheral, the crooked edges maps show— the limit is sensate here where I can never travel all nightand the next day— I brought you what has bound you,a piece of cloth in tatting thread and colorsI found here—loosestrife, sorrel, the guelder rose,wood anemone—a tapestry barring girlhood to onefield, long stripe of a neighbor’s plow turningland just over the woven branches: earthto earth.

38

The sandwich cart rattles by, you stackcups on a tray. Meanwhile, unobtrusively, the airdiffuses particles, the sky is pinked. This earth. This shining in the sea.

39

Sweetsfor Kezia, Emilse, Caroline, Adity & Eva

In the high windows, contrails; a severely English blue.There were trees growing out of buildings.

We could touch one another’s shoulders and we did.Flowers on our desks in old jars, postcards,

pictures, poems, biscuits, cups of tea, train tripson a Saturday,

ridiculous photographs, sleep, posesin government-regulation photobooths

with masks on—we knew nothing had to happen.

: :

The tracks of shore birds were a cloth no onehad woven and we couldn’t name.

We made a text with the passage of our hands.We were near each other with music and in silence.

40

There were rarely places we could be at home.

Although we missed where we were born.Although dispersal was the ultimate answer.

We held hands, borrowed clothes, sat together, watchedfor stars or hot-air balloons, birds, satellites.

Did not expect them. There they were.

Éireann Lorsung’s first book, Music for Landing Planes By, was published by Milkweed Editions in 2007. A Minnesota native, she has lived in France, the UK, and Belgium. Lorsung edits the journal 111O and co-runs MIEL, a small press.