Poems by Marsha de la O  ​

What I didn’t Say When He Asked Again Roughly
 
Yes officer, I guess I am a moron, and
you’re a whiz kid; or maybe I’m a moorhen,
and you’re a bawcock, the cock
of the moment, cock of the walk, except
we’re a pair, aren’t we—I’m a white cow,
you’re a trauma bull; you’re a horsefly
singing in my bad ear, scissoring my silk-flank;
I’m that same damn cow with eyelashes
of an adolescent primate, and you’re a gorilla
in a man-suit with permission and an issue;
poor George of the Jungle, poor Yorick the Cop,
might as well be dead for all the thinking
getting done, circling the sun in a buzz zone
of the cortex—the static belt— isn’t fear
static-on-the-brain, aggression’s rat-a-tat-tat
ricocheting round. I’m numb, you’re numb-
nuts, the issue’s settled: Yes, I’m stupid,
aren’t you?   Dim-diddy dumb, dumb-wit,
dunderous—how stupid can we get?  And
what kind of question is that, anyhow?



Janet Leigh is afraid of jazz
 
The voices that swim through the music
offering something forbidden, close-up,
the dark arms of the horn player, his skin
fitting him sleek as a shark suit, clasping
the sax lifting it as sound descends
in long sizzling lines like wires arcing out,
empty eye sliding up and back
to the halo of the spot, motes drifting. 
It makes her want to run.  Like it could tear her
apart, a man at each limb lifting her
off the bed at the Otay Mesa motel,
all of them dressed in black and the music
never letting up its dazzling spun-out
phrases.  If she could run, she would, under
the shadowy arcade as the camera pans wide,
but she's hobbled by her tight skirt,
the staccato of high heels tapping
a rhythm on the uneven street,
her breasts heaving under cashmere,
dogcollar of pearls around her perfect
neck while the sea crashes in the near
distance.  We know she's doomed by music,
cloudburst of percussion on the windshield,
then silence, the camera wheeling around
and Bates Motel appears, lit up on the sign. 
It's the way every aperture turns
into another eye and the shower
won't stop running until long after
she's died.  We know she's doomed, chords
shifting darkly, but she persists,
carrying on with her share of sorrow,
changing into black lingerie and
skipping town if she has to, ending
finally there, wherever the
heart of trouble happens to be.
 
 
Pub. in the collection Black Hope.
​

Marsha de la O holds an MFA in Poetry from Vermont College and has published extensively in journals and anthologies, including The New Yorker and a poem selected by Tracy K. Smith for The Slowdown.  She is the author of four books, Creature and Every Ravening Thing from Pitt Poetry Series as well as Antidote for Night and Black Hope.  Honors include the Isabella Gardner Award, the New Issues Press Poetry Prize and an Editors Choice Award.

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