an abridged biography of Shirley Jackson
One night in the middle of another
drunken party—the usual parade
stepping over cats and trash,
the lampshade making rounds,
her husband holding court,
her children running wild—
one night in the middle of real life
she found Dylan Thomas. There,
in her dirty kitchen, looking for a glass.
Sometimes I picture
just their shoes on linoleum,
circles inside circles, their complicated
scuff marks splashed with liquor and food,
hilarity coming and going through
a wide-swinging door. They moved
to the back porch to kiss
and nobody knows what else. But I think
the moon floated in and out of a cloud,
she passed him a secret with her lips
and became famous, finally, to herself.
After was merely after. Her solace
writing stories, her stories throwing stones.
I think back to her kitchen, the cat
on the counter, his scratchy tweed jacket,
his lips on her throat.
I replay the evening beginning to end
and in this very manner—
I’m sure of it now—
she got through the rest of her life.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
