This is the death of dying.
So says Jessica Dawson in her poem A Response to Rumi’s The Seed Market, from her poetry collection Fossil Fuels. It’s an aptly fearless announcement from a book which acknowledges in both title and content the depletions we welcome and readily survive. In Rumi’s poem a falcon appears for no reason, in Dawson’s the proclamation is made to say more vulture than falcon, really. Words mean. It is here we are pleaded with to have purpose, be vulture.
Dawson is not afraid of gender. In her opening poem, Dear Sir, she is both addressing and blind copying the reader on the memo. In her second poem, Lessons in Fickleness and Erratic Behavior, she says and then sir, you’ll be well on your way. In the same poem: Abandon fly-fishing…think about it fondly, in theory. Dawson understands the need for a line that does not choose, but accepts an additional in theory.
Many of the poems have the speaker looking upon the back of another, or imagining doing so. Lines like twenty-some years it took for his back to become a wall cast Dawson as one positioned behind things, a keeper conditioned to still them, while also understanding the necessary act of committing last things to memory. In the introduction, Brian Dawson states that ‘New Confessionalism is alive and well’ and I would agree and add that it is summoned, here, from the most sustaining of muscle memories.
The creativity on display in the book is thankfully not showy, but is also not hesitant. Whether Dawson is dreaming of being an alligator and calling a flamingo leg a rubber tent stake or merely waking blinking in code, breathing in diagram or calling us all volunteer rainbows, substitute stars- she is always next door, present, making of our locale a show woman’s world.
The finest poem here is titled Upon Discovering My Husbands Porn Stash, not because it divorces itself from the others but because it marries if only by common law what the book has lived with long enough to say it’s more the amputee ache / of my fingers / when they leave his skin / and the feeling that I’m in this alone.
I quote much here from the book and could much more because the book speaks for itself, but also to itself. Its speaker seems unsure, modest, unable to agree that any word is final. How refreshing. Here is a final clue, and last quote, from the poem A Little Ditty:
Explanations are ghosts of guilt,
shadows of sympathy, and I have no use for them.