Kate Bernadette Benedict

Pageant

Presumably you want to compete,
having come all this way,
having brought your train case with its color pots,
your leotard and your particular talent.
Why the hesitation?

Things get frenzied, of course—
the preening, the vogueing,
the mandatory and unremitting scintillation.

Ask yourself, do you want to be interrogated,
to extemporize and ingratiate?
Have you an aversion to depilation?
Will broth and the single radish be satisfactory?
Bared teeth are a requirement
and pinched toes
and the subtle contouring of the décolletage.

If history repeats, the pageant doctor will diagnose
everything from anorexia to zygomycosis.
In my day, the main afflictions were ulcers
and leaking tear ducts,
that thin salt stream hardly adequate
for putting out the fire of those invisible sores.

Still, it’s your life’s dream, isn’t it?—
so you might as well sign on, my lovely,
you might as well go for it:
that glory walk
to slapping hands and detonating light.

you might as well go for it:
that glory walk
to slapping hands and detonating light.

 

 

Perfectly Ready

Lord Es has made it known that a brown child
will soon be delivered into these pale arms of mine.
A nervousness disrupts our domesticity.

Roads are closed, rations scarce,
wish and will in long quiescence—
there is no preparedness, no cradle or manger.

Therefore I come here, to the garden,
to walk the English maze
or sit with cupped hands under the jacaranda.
When the black hawks fly over, I make allowance.

There is a room beyond the cooking room
where we we keep rare utensils
and beyond the utensil room
another room lacking windows and doors.
The faint moanings come from there.

The mother of the lord will bring the child to me,
unswaddled and writhing, lustrous with uterine fluids.
Grief is upon me: my gaunt breasts!—

but it is prophesied
that milk will flow instantly from them,
lavish and sweet.
I will be adequate after all,
despite my years and antiquated ways.
Perfectly ready.

 

 

The Game

Having been told of the game . . .
Having been conscripted into the game . . .
Having been fitted for the authorized garments . . .
Having donned them, piece by piece, in the set ritual . . .

Having been equipped with the certified implements . . .
Having performed the preliminary exercise . . .
Having made my way alone through the hedge maze . . .
and entered, when summoned, through the opening portcullis . . .

Having stood before tapestries and mirrors, uncomprehending . . .
Having despaired of winning,
or grasping the rules of the game at all . . .

I stand before you, judges of Thebes, legion fathers.
I stand before you in a vitalizing panic and defy you.