Hello Friends,
Today’s poem by torrin a. greathouse is one of my favorite poetic forms: the abecedarian. Each line of the poem begins with A, B, C, D, E, F, all the way through Z. (Some of the lines are long, so they may appear to wrap onto a second line on your screen.) The poet cites specific inspiration from an abecedarian by Natalie Diaz, “Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation.”
torrin a. greathouse is a transgender cripple-punk poet and essayist. She teaches at the Rainier Writing Workshop, the low-residency MFA program at Pacific Lutheran University. You can find more of her work at torringreathouse.com.
As a reminder, this poem-a-day series is strictly for personal use only; in almost all cases, I do not have poets’ nor poetry publishers’ permission to reproduce their work. For a more official poem-a-day email list, you can always visit the Academy of American Poets (poets.org), the creators and sponsors of National Poetry Month.
Enjoy.
Ællen
Today’s poem by torrin a. greathouse is one of my favorite poetic forms: the abecedarian. Each line of the poem begins with A, B, C, D, E, F, all the way through Z. (Some of the lines are long, so they may appear to wrap onto a second line on your screen.) The poet cites specific inspiration from an abecedarian by Natalie Diaz, “Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation.”
torrin a. greathouse is a transgender cripple-punk poet and essayist. She teaches at the Rainier Writing Workshop, the low-residency MFA program at Pacific Lutheran University. You can find more of her work at torringreathouse.com.
As a reminder, this poem-a-day series is strictly for personal use only; in almost all cases, I do not have poets’ nor poetry publishers’ permission to reproduce their work. For a more official poem-a-day email list, you can always visit the Academy of American Poets (poets.org), the creators and sponsors of National Poetry Month.
Enjoy.
Ællen
Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination Before a Diagnosis Can Be Determined
After Natalie Diaz
Antonym for me a medical
book. Replace all the punctuation—
commas, periods, semicolons—with question marks.
Diagnosis is just apotheosis with sharper
edges. New name for a myth already lived in.
For the sake of thoroughness, I have
given until my veins cratered. Tests administered for:
HIV, cirrhosis, glucose, cancer, creatine, albumin, iron, platelets.
I’ve slept for days, wired to machines. Had my piss filtered for stray proteins
just to be safe. Still, inside my body—
kingdom with poisoned wells. I want anything but an elegy
lining my bones. I just want to be a question this body can answer.
My new doctor writes on referral, then another, still
no guesses. A man in a scowl & lab coat
offers yoga, more painkillers. Suggests
PTSD could be the cause—of chronic pain, my limp, of migraines,
quickened pulse & blood-glittered coughs, of seizures
rattling me inside my skin—O,
syndrome of my perfect & unbroken
transgender arm. They checked my hormones too. Yes.
Unfathomable—a suffering I did not choose. Must be gender, this
vacancy my body makes of its own flesh. How I vanish from myself.
We search for a beginning to this story & find only a history of breakage
X-rays cannot explain. Some girls are not made, but spring from the dirt:
yearling tree already scarred from its branch’s severance.
Zygote of red clay that rain washes into a river of blood.
■
After Natalie Diaz
Antonym for me a medical
book. Replace all the punctuation—
commas, periods, semicolons—with question marks.
Diagnosis is just apotheosis with sharper
edges. New name for a myth already lived in.
For the sake of thoroughness, I have
given until my veins cratered. Tests administered for:
HIV, cirrhosis, glucose, cancer, creatine, albumin, iron, platelets.
I’ve slept for days, wired to machines. Had my piss filtered for stray proteins
just to be safe. Still, inside my body—
kingdom with poisoned wells. I want anything but an elegy
lining my bones. I just want to be a question this body can answer.
My new doctor writes on referral, then another, still
no guesses. A man in a scowl & lab coat
offers yoga, more painkillers. Suggests
PTSD could be the cause—of chronic pain, my limp, of migraines,
quickened pulse & blood-glittered coughs, of seizures
rattling me inside my skin—O,
syndrome of my perfect & unbroken
transgender arm. They checked my hormones too. Yes.
Unfathomable—a suffering I did not choose. Must be gender, this
vacancy my body makes of its own flesh. How I vanish from myself.
We search for a beginning to this story & find only a history of breakage
X-rays cannot explain. Some girls are not made, but spring from the dirt:
yearling tree already scarred from its branch’s severance.
Zygote of red clay that rain washes into a river of blood.
■