Constance Merritt
Invisible Woman, Dancing*
All Hallows Eve, Sweet Briar College, 2003
I came as a ghost to the party,
no costume required, I only had to wear
the brilliant skin, the ruinous eyes,
the body poised in transit, unwriting
the myth of sex. I came as a ghost
to the party, though we pretended
not to notice a palpable hovering
in the interstices of conversations,
a presence so insubstantial
eyes passed through it, hands
reached through air, bodies jostled
on the dance floor and never felt a thing.
Still, some there were haunted,
drawn away from the company,
its clenched knots of desperate clever banter,
to contemplate the thinnest air
as if, despite themselves,
they heard and heeded a ghostly tongue;
their bodies swayed in answer.
Staring into that void they glimpsed themselves,
turned back, shuddering, to the masquerade.
I came as a ghost to the party
against my better judgment
at the persistent, earnest
urging of my friends, as if
a ghost had friends when they hoist
the flag of whiteness and huddle there
under purity and privilege, surrender—fatal—
the furious, frailer, darker parts
of themselves. Recently they had rallied
to kiss the ass of a black man who had accomplished
admirable things—though most there had not read them
or only read a story,
as pleasantly exotic and sweetly soothing
as those wonderful spirituals
about wading in the water and summertime.
So extravagant was their ardor
that I, a member of his tribe,
could not get near him or have one word.
Still, I know he saw me, sitting there, tense, alone,
before his lecture, unmoored and vanishing
in the cocktail Hell before his dinner—
did not only see, but recognized a kindred ache.
The first and second and third rule of thumb,
the commentator said, is do not scare
the white people. And so we stand apart,
raise no specters of over-educated house
niggers breeding insurrections, mustering
ghost armies of strangers, lepers, freaks,
the wretched of the earth, furious,
innumerable and not afraid to die.
I came as a ghost to the party.
you didn't wear a costume, someone said.
I came as an activist, I replied,
modeling my black ACLU t-shirt,
Lady Liberty emblazoned down my front,
at my back, a litany of rights.
I might have said the costume's in the eye.
You will weave for me a shroud
and I will walk among you like a ghost,
mask of the red death, memento mori.
Blind with pride and rage
(I will ask no one for help), I quit the place,
leave the lake behind, the band's god-awful
din, the strafing voices—the rent
in the world's fabric miraculously healed
by my going. The dark deserted road
is unfamiliar, its grade, its curves,
the woods casting shadows from either side,
but any path is right that leads away.
I lose my way, keep going, going,
deeper into the maze, finally turn back.
Returned, the band's on break;
They've put a mix tape in.
I dance like one possessed, furious grace.
When strangers, not of this place,
say a quick goodnight, I run after,
take me with you, I say.
A solid hand upon my solid knee, warm hands
returning the pressure of my warm hand—
two women rescue me, deliver me—
ghost in the machine
once more human girl—home
with promises of brunch and company
they will or will not keep.
No matter. I lock the door
and slide the chain, rest back against
the frame, breathing relief.
May they all die horribly in a boathouse fire.
The malediction takes me by surprise.
I say it once again with clear intent:
May they all die horribly in a boathouse fire.
These words be kerosene, dry wood, locked doors, a match.
* * *
What Gets Lost
Love gets lost, lives get lost when leaders lie and stay the course and love their pride more than the lives of
the poor and lost. The way gets lost. The point gets lost. I get lost in thought, in loneliness, in cyberspace. The
way gets lost. No maps to lead us on or back. Lives get lost, here and faraway. Love gets lost. Second by second our
lives are lost; second by second we throw life away—wasting love, wasting time as if one could save one's breath.
Death gets lost when life is death. The way gets lost. And if I lost door keys or houses, my mother's watch, how would
that compare? Faith gets lost. The way gets lost. Daily we accept the toll of young lives lost. We drink it down with
morning coffee; we butter our bread. We do not scream or go mad. Which means our minds are already lost. We lose the
power to awake. We lose the grace of dreams. Are we losing sleep? Or are we sleeping still?
Lives are lost. The way is lost. We throw the brightest pearls away. The maps are wrong; the maps are torn; they
will not lead us forward or back or anywhere beyond the quagmire we've been sinking in—how many years? The way
is lost. Truth is lost. Our wills are nailed to some ungodly cross. We hang there calm; we do not flail. The day is
lost. Soon another night; another week; another year. The way is lost. My faith is lost. They have closed down the
office of the lost and found, and I don't even know who they are. We are they; they is us. It was beautiful the
office of the lost and found.
Constance Merritt was born in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, and educated at the Arkansas School for the Blind
in Little Rock. She is the author of four collections of poems, including her forthcoming book Blind Girl Grunt:
The Selected Blues
Lyrics and other Poems (Headmistress Press, 2017). Merritt
earned her MSSW from the University of Louisville. She lives and works in Louisville, KY with her wife, Maria Acardi.
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