ERAN E. EADS
Growing up in a conservative wilderness commune, Eran was inspired to start writing
when the local librarian slipped him the works of Sylvia Plath and other poets underneath
conventional book covers. Currently, Eran lives in Fairbanks, where he studies English at
the University of Alaska Fairbanks under poet Derick Burleson.
The boys found me in the mud from the river.
They formed my breasts; and pushed them up.
They gave me stick arms that budded softly,
they found driftwood and formed thick thighs,
and stuck their fingers inside me and called it
a canal. The river ran through, until I found breath
And breathing came to me like a dog: ravenous.
The boys come through me, and like dogs,
they leave themselves on my skin when they go.
Born from silt and created like silver: grey
or shining; if I were them I would know what to do.
My ribs are my own, I found them myself.
I put them inside to protect my pulsing boy-heart.
I took the heart from something.
I learned the language of my people: I spoke
nothing, drew pictures with the trees and
drew pictures of pictures and the boys took
the pictures and the pictures became words.
The boys with dog-hearts gave me words,
took my hair and made paper from my skin.
Write it down. Remember it. I am not the only one.
My mother is fat and my mother is insecure
according to the man who made her.
And his words are becoming skipping-stones.
My mother won't let him hit her until he feels
like a man. She doesn't want to be a good girl,
nothing like her mother, no whispers or bruises.
My mother is worthless and unstable:
she forgets her place and speaks her mind,
nothing like the woman who cowers with the bottle.
My mother is rippling and my mother might surge,
a silly girl who wants a father without lips,
nothing like her mother, drinking 12% from a bowl.
Out In The World
Pack your bag. Eden is done with you. You tasted happiness. Don't you know what not to ask for? They are done with you. This was your dream. You wanted to be hated because you thought it was beautiful. Little child with your filthy thoughts: here is the world you thought you wanted. They speak your language here. Fuck. It means nothing. They donít tell you it's a hell. You can think what you want, you die with it. You die with your thoughts. Here, you die forgotten. You are 99 miles away and you don't have a home.
Agenda. They ask for an agenda...
You forgot you have to have one here. You forgot: purity is best when you lift up its skirt.
I want to go back. I want to go back. I want to go back.
[It means nothing now]
They don't tell you what side of the street to walk along at night, when a man throws you out of his car on Badger Rd, and you walk the miles back thinking that you wish you were smarter than this. They don't tell you to say Mr. or Mrs. They don't tell you what to say when you have sex because you want him to leave and you don't know how to say go. They don't teach you.
They teach you that 7 o'clock means 6:50 and that you should be seated for the prayer. They teach you to clean the floors, clean the barn, clean the skidoos, clean the school, clean the house, and then clean the restaurant. Stop wanting to go back. Stop thinking about it when you are walking to the bus in the morning and you see your breath in the air and it looks like a stranger. No one wants you back.
Back to Front.