To the reader: On publishing a poem about the abuse in my childhood, and: Reading Robert Lowell at 3 AM, and: Bad Dad, and: Fishermen with catch: Lamu, Kenya, and: On knowing a woman who excuses herself from the table, even in restaurants, to brush her Teeth Toi Derricotte (bio) To the reader: On publishing a poem about the abuse in my childhood Let me first say that I regret sending this document out into the world. And I regret that it has fallen into your hands, and that, having fallen into your hands, I am asking you to read it. I do this not as a performance of brutality to which I want your witness. I do it because it must exist as a reflection of its contrary. In my body the memories were lodged. This writing is a dim bulb on a black cord in the examiner's room. I prefer you do not attempt to read it. I cannot help but feel responsible for your discomfort. So, as you read, you will feel me tugging it from your hands. I send this document of torture out because it happened to me and happened continuously inside me for the next sixty years. Completing a poem necessitates a struggle to create a work that exhibits balance and symmetry. I have been hampered by an idea of perfection. I have struggled to please one who mirrors back my unworthiness. But poetry is visceral; it recreates the most primal sense of entitlement to breath and music, to life itself. I have fixed together an internal form, like a tailor's bodice. I wear it as a self, stiff but useful, stitched together from scraps. Through it, in this new incarnation, I am as vulnerable as a self without mirror. [End Page 7] Reading Robert Lowell at 3 AM I read, haphazardly,with no purpose except the reading. I sitin the wide armchair for hours, alternatingbetween sleep and contemplation.He finished with poems that didn't speak to meuntil now: not the packed images & tornloyalties of Life Studies. No longer confessingthe past nor obsessed with self-hatred,he wanted "to make / something imagined,not recalled . . ." and missedthe provoking demons. The new poemsseemed "threadbare . . . yet [End Page 8] "(W)hy not say what happened?"—In the end, he encouraged himselflike a loving friend. Bad Dad I thought I had murderedMy brutish father, but here he isOn tv, risen,With orange Technicolor hair. Fishermen with catch: Lamu, Kenya They call us to come see— Today two! So weGo down to the muck of low tide, nothing but theLights of the bars along the harbor. The large one about 12 feet, bellyUp in the shallows, nearly submerged, as if floatingUnderwater on its back, the tide rocking against it. A wide grin cracks its entire head; the lipsPucker around keen teeth. Our flashlights circle the mud-caked men, their machetesSlashing through silvery skin to expose A rusty menstrual-colored meat. [End Page 9] An hour later, when we return,Everything's gone— The ocean bloodless— Except for that huge grinning head. A last manDismantles its composure with his knife. Lamu is Kenya's oldest continually inhabited town and was one of the original Swahili settlements along coastal East Africa, founded in 1370. On knowing a woman who excuses herself from the table, even in restaurants, to brush her teeth I would feel strange to brush my teeth in public. I would feel that I'm fouling the sink more than if I were washing my hands. It's true, you can get excretions on your hands. Still the hands are such pretty little things to wash, so visible and pink or brown, not the same as those things that you must scour inside the mouth, digging out threads of meat and torn, sticky shreds of lettuce; and the tongue seems so phallic, or clitoral, and, in fact is descended from the same cells in the embryo that split off to make the sexual organs. I notice her open mouth, her pink throat, and I dangerously lift one foot from...