Anne Says the Autopsy Smells
after Anne Carson
like nothing, says when you died
the dog got angry, stayed angry,
growling, lashing, glaring, by day
& night the dog heeled at the church
of nothingness, chewed nothing but nails,
cleaned nothing from his fur, ran around & grabbed
at nothing with his not-hands—chased you out
of my memory. The dream where you wake up
to the dog crying like a human baby. I sleep on the porch.
He stares at the doorframe & I know you’ve come back
to collect god-knows-what. The dream where you suffocate
in bed beside me & I think you’re singing. I hear nothing. The dog sings
along. I bury & try to prove how my hands won’t substitute,
running them through his fur & he bites. I streak your cologne
across my neck, but he can’t smell you–a world of silence & turned backs–
unable to know your face stared blank of its features. Anne says
it’s nothing, the dreams in all-gray. The dog, a choir of empty, howling
at a distant congregation who don’t notice & frustrate his longing.
You die because [I left the sink on]. The nothing-scent of loss filling
the fresh air & our minds occupy. The dog & [I said
nothing]. He’s wondering why [I didn’t close the door] you did it, sleeping
in the room filled with nothing, the room you keep rearranging when
we’re nowhere & know you left nothing behind--the dream where I see the wolf
behind you but I’m mute & cannot triage. The grief-ruined brain of a body
hunting itself forgets who let it outside in the first place.
like nothing, says when you died
the dog got angry, stayed angry,
growling, lashing, glaring, by day
& night the dog heeled at the church
of nothingness, chewed nothing but nails,
cleaned nothing from his fur, ran around & grabbed
at nothing with his not-hands—chased you out
of my memory. The dream where you wake up
to the dog crying like a human baby. I sleep on the porch.
He stares at the doorframe & I know you’ve come back
to collect god-knows-what. The dream where you suffocate
in bed beside me & I think you’re singing. I hear nothing. The dog sings
along. I bury & try to prove how my hands won’t substitute,
running them through his fur & he bites. I streak your cologne
across my neck, but he can’t smell you–a world of silence & turned backs–
unable to know your face stared blank of its features. Anne says
it’s nothing, the dreams in all-gray. The dog, a choir of empty, howling
at a distant congregation who don’t notice & frustrate his longing.
You die because [I left the sink on]. The nothing-scent of loss filling
the fresh air & our minds occupy. The dog & [I said
nothing]. He’s wondering why [I didn’t close the door] you did it, sleeping
in the room filled with nothing, the room you keep rearranging when
we’re nowhere & know you left nothing behind--the dream where I see the wolf
behind you but I’m mute & cannot triage. The grief-ruined brain of a body
hunting itself forgets who let it outside in the first place.
Duncan Slagle is a queer poet and performer from Alaska & then Minnesota. Duncan is the author of FATHER HUNT (L'Éphémère Review) & currently attends the University of Wisconsin-Madison as a First Wave Scholar studying Ancient Greek, Latin, and Creative Writing. The winner of the 2018 Crab Creek Review Poetry Prize, the 2018 Mikrokosmos Poetry Prize, and a 2018 Best of the Net nominee, more of Duncan's work can be found online at duncanslagle.com.
“Anne Says the Autopsy Smells” was written because of and in response to some of Anne Carson’s writing on death. This poem’s attempts at stretching grief into some surreal, horrific dreamscape was an exercise in archive, on the way towards healing.
“Anne Says the Autopsy Smells” was written because of and in response to some of Anne Carson’s writing on death. This poem’s attempts at stretching grief into some surreal, horrific dreamscape was an exercise in archive, on the way towards healing.