Devotional
IN THE nursery, my husband reads a poem from the perspective of a dog. The poem is in Saint Judas, James Wright’s second book. Wright disavowed this book, which is unfathomable to my husband—he has been reading this book, and it is remarkable, he believes. Remarkable? These are rhyming poems, before Wright renounced rhyme. My husband says this kind of rhyme is a rarity, but I am wary of rhyme’s insect-buzz in my ear. I distrust its power over my husband. In the poem, a dog crosses fallow fields. I can’t remember what else. My son is lying across my lap, lips soft on my breast. Eyes closed, forehead slick with sweat, he is sleepy—he keeps forgetting to suck, then jolts half-awake: reaches his neck, stretches his throat, and gulps my nipple.
The poem about the dog is the second poem my husband reads in the nursery—he was inordinately, intimately moved by the first. Now, as he reads of a dog enduring a storm of midges, his voice hucks in his throat. His words go to mud.
Slurring, slur, first a noun—thin, fluid dirt—then a verb: smeared, smirched, disparaged.
I hold my son close when he nurses, as if we are two passengers on a life raft. I watch his cheeks hollow and fill. Listen to his breathing, not the poem. Even if I give my husband the benefit of the doubt—maybe he is merely moved by the poetry—I suspect he is drunk. I can’t look at him. I focus on the bookshelf, where three ladybugs play dead.
Running to spare his suffering, I forgot / My name, my number, how my day began
—James Wright, “Saint Judas”
OUR BEDROOM is adjacent to the nursery. It has high ceilings and no heat. It’s an attic, shoddily converted with piecemeal flooring and ugly office-park sconces. Plus, the electrical is sketchy.
