The next poem is from a little chapbook
that came out this year, which has the embarrassing title
of my names greatest hits-- "my greatest hits,"
so that poets can feel like rock stars.
And this poem is called "Scorpion Season"
because I've been stung or I used
to get stung a lot by scorpions.
But then I wrote this poem, and now I
haven't been stung by a scorpion since I wrote this poem.
So I keep hoping, you know, that they won't get me in my sleep.
Well, one actually fell off my ceiling, right?
And I just-- I was in this dream.
And it stung me twice right in my breast.
This was not cool.
I did not invite this.
And, so, we were living in Oracle
or outside of Oracle, Arizona, which
is 45 miles from the nearest hospital.
So we called our friend the doctor, Arnold Nelson.
And Arnold said, well, you'll be OK as long
as it's not near the heart.
And I thought, oh, this is not good.
Literally, I was paralyzed from the waist down for a few hours
because it was one of those little bark scorpions that
glow in the dark.
But bill killed it, my husband.
And I kept it in the refrigerator in a jar,
and I felt really bad about that.
But I kept it for a long time.
And then I had to make my peace with them, as you always
have to make your peace with every creature in the world
because we share this planet with them.
And I also, I teach environmental literature
at Fort Lewis College.
And I enjoy doing that.
So a lot of my poems come or draw their imagery
from the natural world.
And this one from the scorpion.
"Scorpion Season."
"Heat and monsoons call them out.
Scorpions drop from ceilings or hide
inside the cool, damp flesh of washcloths.
They find me everywhere I don't want them to be.
Now, before coffee, I'm ready for a bath.
No alarm is more obscene than this scorpion in my tub
who maps with translucent claws the unscaleable stainless
drain.
Its caramel body glows, shows off
the one black vein of poison that lashes
the heart to the stinger tail.
Ticking seductress, misfortunes naive face,
the scorpion scuttles through the world's shadows
with its tail held aloof, lariat looped above its delicate head.
Some call it beautiful, but I won't forget the night
a scorpion twice stung my breast.
Venom dry iced my chest.
Constricted my breathing in his death vest.
My legs swelled numb.
And, for days, a reggae of pain needled my face, my hands.
Last night, when the moon cracked
thunderheads and the arroyos yelped
from the hysterical hunting of coyotes,
I screamed when I found a scorpion curled on my pillow.
Not this time, you little son of a bitch,
I said as I clamped down the mayonnaise jar."
Excuse my language.
"Then I heard it-- the minute click
of his claws, their quick and frantic tattoo on glass,
that small tapping wrapped for my own inner ear
the fear of the blind man's stick, electricity licking
the fingernails of the dead.
I stopped, awed by the power of so much venom in such
a fragile shape.
Such charm the world offers is as dangerous as the one lover
you'd follow anywhere.
The scorpion and I are not so different,
carrying poison to protect us, plagued by our common baggage
of action and consequence.
I freed him, knowing such defenses are
a necessity for those who live by thunder light and moon.
This morning, I wonder if I made a mistake.
I am naked and shivering despite desert heat.
How do I evict this scorpion from my bathtub
without getting stung?
While clouds not blue air and lightning spikes wind through
blood, skin to manzanita, yellow-flowering mesquite,
I find the perfect instruments--
chopsticks."
Always works, girls.
"Never has balance been more apparent.
This morning hovers between punishment and grace.
Rain breaks as in one swift pinch and lift,
I flip the scorpion into its transparent cage.
Together, we'll wait out the monsoon in this dry land
where each day we learn the heart of its seasons
are twins to ours with their beauty, their terror."
I always use the chopstick method.