Four-Legged Girl: Poems

By Diane Seuss

Finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry

"Diane Seuss writes with the depth of a soothsayer." ―Laura Kasischke

For, having imagined your physique a method i discovered it to be in a different way, it was once yielding,
but merely because the Destroying Angel mushroom yields, its softness allied
with its poison, and your legs weren't petals or tendrils as i would believed,
but brazen, the deviant tentacles underneath the underskirt of a mystery queen
―from "Oh four-legged lady, it truly is both you or the ossuary"

In Diane Seuss's Four-Legged Girl, her audacious, hothouse language swerves into ache and rapture, as she recounts a lifestyles lived on the edges of containment. Ghostly, horny, and plaintive, those poems pass to the track of a leap rope, fill a wishing good with wish and different trinkets, and so they take into account earlier lush lives in manhattan urban, in rural Michigan, and in love. within the ultimate poem, she sings of the four-legged woman, the physique made unusual to itself and to others. This assortment establishes Seuss's poetic voice, as wealthy and emotional as any in modern poetry.

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There's no redemption in having outlived all of them, yet having outlived Burroughs, that makes me smile a section at the inside of, although you’d by no means comprehend it to examine me. Warhol’s Shadows i will be able to position us in house, the Heiner Friedrich gallery, 393 West Broadway, an express of Andy Warhol’s Shadows. i will be able to position us in time, 1979, iciness, muddy slush seeping throughout the cracks in my footwear. purely the wealthy wore heels then, attractiveness much less prescribed, blousier, the sunshine much less filtered then, even in manhattan, the place I blew soot from my nostril, and the homeless, now not but rounded-up, frozen blue on park benches, or clustered in trinities or quartets, wreathing burn barrels, smoke helixing into the sky which was once usually blue, quite often blue, cloudless, a chilly January. a wierd, unfiltered innocence, as though the nerves of sunshine have been stripped, or had by no means been armored, and that i used to be unarmed, tender, silly, now not but muffled through lifeless knowledge and foolish targets that are stand-ins for excitement and what's known as love, candy until eventually it used to be sour, and whilst it used to be sour I spat it out onto the road, which glittered, in iciness, with highway salt, fish scales, sequins and spare swap. We didn’t intend to visit Warhol’s convey, meant not anything in these days, unintentional our approach into hope, being pregnant, habit, Hep C, artwork, oceans, punk, and later, dying, yet then, within the current stressful, we wandered into Warhol’s Shadows. the picture rotated us, caped, canvases skirting the room just like the bell of a jellyfish, iterative, alliterative, a tolling black echo opposed to the mopped-on yellow and aubergine, chartreuse and indigo. I wasn’t used to paint saturation in these days, our outfits, black, our hair, our beans, our 3 rooms on E. seventh approximately windowless, the roaches, brown, their egg handbags darkish, the newborns, translucent amber. colour anything we’d need to earn, like jewels or heaven, and Warhol had utilized it, with diamond dirt, extravagantly. there has been good looks in it, or a willingness to be appealing, expressiveness, gesture, no irony, no longer the vacancy he used to be recognized for, or the forex, the numbness. The shadows have been numinous, furred, like evening is furred, and goals, the sort we’d wake from drooling and shouting as though we have been young children. Warhol used to be there, a column of chalk at lifeless heart of the gallery, signing copies of Interview. i believe I informed him his artwork was once lovely, which didn’t benefit even a watch roll or a look, for i used to be nobody, a punk in a sea of punks, hooked to a doomed junkie. I had no identification that Warhol may possibly recognize—identity— that faded, flat, chilly, bewigged factor. To be anyone is to be swallowed by means of a pitcher of ice water and to dwell inside of its imperious solitude. Warhol did his most sensible to fake the work have been easily trade, extra of an analogous, yet they weren't a similar. there has been dying in them. underneath the nacreous wig he felt it coming. I went downtown and went down at the We purchase Gold man. i've got a specific thing for debauched hucksters in ape costumes. prior to that I enjoyed the woman who holds the signal open air Little Caesar’s advertisements the two for 1 pizza deal.

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