Ten Poems by Candice Louisa Daquin

 

What it is really, that made me appear 

—after Wislawa Szymborska’s poem Astonishment

 

whole in public? When you tell someone to imagine 

everyone naked, the abused segment of your brain will 

conjure hyper-vigilance, running cold baths 

as you would cultivate a paper cut.  

I appeared briefly; bronze and silver, never gold 

licked your fingers clean of sin, so you could sit 

and cancer eat, the darkness of your sadism.  

Then bones jutted like graveyards, cruelty repurposed 

those lost, extracted from the world  

in single pinched inhale. 

I stayed stricken for two turns around the stars 

exhausting youth like smoking a blunt 

to the end will leave emptiness stroking 

corners of astonishment.  

When the earth reared like 

a stolen mare, you knew, you knew  

I had nobody. 

How you nursed the wounds 

become scabs, to be eaten 

no condiment 

livid.

  

 

At midnight you fell forward

You are a sovereign being, she said 

created from the source of all there is—to be you. 

There are no coincidences, we met by the water  

baptized by the coal of your eyes 

on a Sunday waiting for the random car 

to go by. Listening to the radio through 

grieving rain, you said; Tune into me.  

I am an exhibition, just for you.  

I have thirsted so long, this rage will never  

quit burning. Warm yourself in my wake. 

There are spirits who reach the verge 

a candle will attach its flame to a wind 

osmosis breaks the glass ceiling and we  

stay long past closing time, drinking your 

best vintage in scarlet hose and syllable. 

Take your time when people present their  

true selves—you are unquenchable 

indelible; you are electric storm  

and permanence 

woman, woman, woman.

 

Woman you are not a hot spot

Don’t engage in conversation, if you do, excuse yourself 

but avoid going to a toilet in a quiet part of the train 

 

sitting back down, a stranger tries catching my eye 

failing, he pushes into my space—30 inches, 

28, soon he will be a waist-size, his legs obscenely 

wide-spread, asking what my book’s about 

words to gauge access, words to push past 

boundaries—other people know what’s happening 

do nothing, burying heads in phones or out windows 

relief it isn’t them. First instinct is to be rude, although  

it wouldn’t be rude to tell him to leave me alone 

social mores, inculcated bobby pins; affix themselves  

to situations and pinch. Before you know it, you’re smiling  

when you’re not happy, those weird machinations when 

threatened, paucity pulls him closer, you’re awkward because  

what you want to say is fuck right off, Even the other women 

thankful it isn’t them, would find that a bloody affront 

it’s how we’re bred, it’s why we need to blow it up 

how absurd— it flashes briefly through my head 

we’ve really gone and messed it up for women 

haven’t we? Scorned for being too rude or 

raped by proxy if we feign politeness—maybe 

worse than proxy, he could follow you as 

you disembark; when was the last time you 

walked through empty streets, not looking once 

over your shoulder? Able to think without fear 

its withering omnipresence, instead, admire the night 

roosting of bird song, play of last light in glossy 

rain, how the city appears to let its guard down 

and sit softly, the reach of day now behind it.  

Something you can’t do, if walking were not a  

sentence to be endured; the regret of shoes too loud  

how your coat hugs your shape, lets predators  

smell out gender. Once you were told if you walked 

with your legs wider apart, you’d sound like a  

man. Trickery. This is probably the only time you want 

to be a man, or to be a knife, or some weapon 

that invariably you’d be arrested for if discovered 

no such thing as a walk home; more like 

will you make it? Did you get in safely?  

friends call each other, every evening 

trying to keep the anxiousness 

the bloody exhaustion 

out of our voices.

 

 

Will you listen?

To messages in the walls  

conversations between mortar and plaster 

shifting voices murmuring splendor— 

of small consequence, the sound of your life 

in the womb— flickering security you’ve forgotten  

but now, listen to the things you own 

the fits and starts; simple failure—Lazarus’s bowl 

what repair can be made to push you forward? 

Before you forget the right to dance on the balls 

of your wet soles, around and around you go 

freed like nectar, dandelion seed, wilding  

before you collapse inside yourself— 

reach again; for hope you didn’t let yourself taste. 

How many people live inside you? Urging  

venting future in your caught throat?  

These unclaimed things are who you are. 

Counting time backward from Babel’s tower  

the terrible need to exist despite yourself  

a time of locust and glue and winged attempt 

how will you uncover that brightening part 

and relent? Exist, damn it.

  

 

Then say no

Our society teaches a woman at a certain age who is unmarried to see it as a deep personal failure. While a man at a certain age who is unmarried has not quite come around to making his pick. It is easy to say, ‘But women can just say no to all this.’ But the reality is more difficult, more complex. We are all social beings. We internalize ideas from our socialization. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.

 

If I could have said no—no you won’t mould me 

before my birth to subjugate or titillate 

nor persuade in utero the facilitation of 

obedience. I am Athena-tearing from  

the brains of my foremothers  

lancing sky with my blade, not one word 

—of consolation. Take nothing, leave nothing 

that’s your moto, Boudica with sword 

bequeathing her daughters’ a rage of indigo and stars. 

Who are you, who are we? Infinity has no edge, no doors 

in the everything, nothing that spirit is— 

spirit wanted to know itself; it created something,  

in the truth, it’s all the same; birthing beings with its own  

consciousness. 

Ancient woman, near written out, returns 

with her, atoms followed— 

expressing different levels of consciousness 

mine says—get your goddamn boot 

off my neck, I am rage 

for every emerging year 

you deny my existence 

I eat universes.

  

Pretence as an art form 

—after Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. 

Pearls after swine, I thought—his grin behind 

coitus tipped cigarette, sate drowsy eyes 

holding me in ruined-rapture. His fingers 

blunt ended—too square, machine 

made flesh, a rot about his neck, slow 

crease line running length of fury 

a demarcation of two sides, one smiling 

the other expressionless. Watching has no 

descriptor; clothes damp on carpet, a bird 

from the ceiling, you can see yourself. 

 

That’s a pearl necklace, a friend said over lunch 

sea pearls are salty, I’ve never been able 

to eat fish, clams, mussels, mollusks 

—taste of man not woman. The china of  

the plate, no, no amount of seed makes  

a life, if spilt in shame. A mask can  

be removed; the outline is remains

eclipsed behind  

closed eyes.

  

 

Somewhere in time, a version of you is whole

The high road—a lost place you walked 

once before unbearable rolled itself to your door 

not cluttered with rules or conscious intent, just 

a lovely hope, tucked in a pocket, letting time furnish drying.  

My high road didn’t forgive you 

—no need; sky and kestrel, robin, raven 

fox, a blur of red and brindle; Neither asked why 

people, die, savage, ruin. Long ago a time 

where fear was not close, nor nearby, why?  

Generations gone, wool on wire, invisible lamb 

—seeking warmth of morning. Climbing above 

expectation, cresting, church in solitary, heather 

rushes her fingers loose and wild, mauve and  

damson. Before I knew of terror—birds heave from 

copse in one bright shape, sparce and full, I didn’t 

fear being alone. Burnished loss, a distant call 

here, the maw of carnivore and mountain slopes 

ever decreasing, letting go, each step a crag—ending 

in echoes, it was better in silence, unvoiced vowels 

lending gravity, pulling nearer, winter dressing 

beneath earth, for time surviving is December 

the closing of stained glass in setting sun—reflecting 

pattern of small procession, my shoes wet through 

cheeks emptied of intent, no beginning over 

till dawn summons, impossibility of carrying  

—on, just one.

  

My hand is still a fist in my pocket

Slid between slides  

carve you sunder in varied 

illuminations, previewing  

what has absented before named 

—the years we planned 

come undone by MRI and  

physicians prescriptive 

 

brightly, sung with ruddy cheeks 

children unknown to loss, still in 

dream of December cake and basketball 

blackcurrant steaming from your lips 

for all keepers of riverbed and wild 

flattering the dry mouth of this State 

 

morning varnishes you in the nude 

ravage of slow horror, cupping  

hands like drinking cold water from 

stream, choke down three pills 

with imprinted numbers pressed into   

powder chests, promising chance 

 

my hand is still a fist in my pocket— 

where you lie, between foil and 

leaves, still, gone and not. 

As clothes you wore a season ago 

expose the ransack of youth, myriad 

tight and sweltering clutch, zips gape 

in askance by fluttering licorice skin 

as seeds unplanted remain drying by 

the light of today—unable to imagine 

tomorrow.

  

 

The circumference of a funeral

Look over at yourself 

there you are—in the line, behind the woman 

in the aubergine scarf. Your cheeks hollow 

it’s surprising to see yourself outside controlled reflection 

all of us, do a double-take in store mirrors, when rain  

acts as mirror—the snag in hose, bunched unsmiling back-fat 

the wicked pinch of grief over beauty, what did 

she ever see in this skin? I can’t remember her smell 

when she wasn’t dying. Night sky turning us iridescent 

wounds blurring on oily roads. You stepped into an  

unexposed film; a snagged longing, enriching emptiness 

life a glinting coffin without lining at the end 

of words, sleep / a tiger without stripes. You were  

brave then—skin like a sallow orange, able to fall 

something dulled inside / that year it didn’t rain 

I’m told not to dwell on pain / just get on / stay busy. 

A realtor told me you can sell a house with three  

things, coffee, Fabulosa, clean windowsills. 

I never once checked your windows 

they could have been torn of flame for all I cared.  

When I laugh now, feathers spill out in a foreign language  

inflation makes pretending to be okay, expensive  

you have to attest you want to die, to stay 72 hours.  

What’s to be done with girls already dead? You didn’t resuscitate me /  

Stockholm Syndrome, has a sound like the 2am train / 

you may not hear any longer.

  

Posthumous meditation at 2.52am

To dream of the frontier is also to desire immortality. But there is no such thing as new territory. There are always previous civilizations, societies, families, and cultures. So when we build new worlds, there will be violence. Cathy Park Hong.

 

I can’t walk backwards and undo words 

that have become bullets. My ancestors weren’t  

happy people—I’ve spent too many years attempting  

the impossible, lying flat behind luggage hoping 

as we drive through borders, they won’t search  

our cavities. I’m told to be grateful and enjoy birthdays— 

I grieve harder, for you; who didn’t love me and weren’t home 

when I had no idea of how I could subsist without one.  

It's terrifying being 1 percent, even if Rachel Madow says  

she’s got friends—I’m mocked at the gay bar for my mini 

dress / because I don’t play darts / they still look up 

my skirt / like a man / without buying me a drink.  

Who are you, if you don’t fit with people who are  

supposed to be your people? We’re not going to connect  

because we’re queer, any more than joining a group for collectors 

of bones will ensure friendship / it’s shocking / how easy 

being alone happens. Just last year we were eating Huevos Divorciados*

avoiding reading obituaries /  

when that didn’t destroy you  

I should have known.  

I’m hungover from my habit  

turning away when I drive past your house  

which was mine / no more than / I belong anywhere.  

There is no such thing as new territory /  

ghosts stand in photos /  

I can’t sleep without the light on or off / hearing 

your voice telling me to go home / where? How?  

 

(* divorced eggs, Mexican plate with two difference sauces on each respective egg).

Candice Louisa Daquin is of French/Egyptian descent. Daquin worked in publishing in Europe before immigrating to America to become a Psychotherapist. She has written for the poetry periodical Rattle and The Northern Poetry Review and was Senior Editor at Indie Blu(e) Publishing, a feminist micro-press. She's currently an Editorial Associate with Raw Earth Ink, as well as poetry editor for The Pine Cone Review, Parcham Literary Magazine & Tint Journal.

Daquin is co-editor of the award winning anthologies SMITTEN This Is What Love Looks Like: Poetry by Women for Women, The Kali Project: Invoking the Goddess Within / Indian Women's Voices, The New Condemned: Contemporary Albanian Poetry in English, Love Letters to Ukraine from Uyava – Любовні листи до України від Уяви, We Will Not Be Silenced: The Lived Experience of Sexual Harassment and Sexual Assault Told Powerfully Through Poetry, Prose, Essay, and Art. Her latest personal collection is Tainted by the Same Counterfeit (Finishing Line Press, 2022). As a queer woman of passionate feminist beliefs concerning equality, Daquin's work and support of others is her body of evidence.