“LET THEM SLICE OFF OUR HEADS”
“Let them slice off our
heads in the desert,” I whispered.
“Let our eyes roll up
toward the heavens; let our bodies
turn to dust and be blown
in four directions from our
bones.”
I packed two sandwiches
and an extra pair of stockings—
took my brother along.
When my uncle found us in
the marketplace and
delivered us back home,
my mother shook her fist,
then knelt and sobbed
into her sleeve.
We tend to imagine our
lives as though they are in
themselves a limit rather
than a tool or simple accessory,
like a knocker on a door.
I used to weep over the
passion until my head ached and I
could no longer see.
My father’s father was a
Jew, condemned; my mother
desired nothing more than
to lead a quiet, Christian life.
I hear loud noises in my head,
which make it hard to
write this down.
The poems that make up MEDIUM are carved and constructed in a kind of layering, providing different elements across a book-length project almost as a polyphonic call-and-response. Skibsrub’s lyrics and asides offer a multitude of voices, structures and perspectives, from Helen of Troy to Anne Boleyn, Marie Curie to Roe vs. Wade, and Shakuntala Devi to Hypatia of Alexandria. The effect is almost choral, offering threads on and around multiple figures vilified across history, reclaiming the stories, purpose and legacies of an array of historical women. “We don’t know either Julian of Norwich’s real name or / what her life was like before she recorded her Revelations / of Divine Love—the first known book to be written by a / woman in the English language,” Skibsrud writes, “in the 14th century. Some / suspect she was a mother before taking her vows, and that / during the plague years she may have lost one or more chil- / dren.” Skibsrud writes akin to an anthology that leans into theatrical script, as different characters, including the narrator, take their turns in the spotlight. As the poem “SOMETIMES, I TELL MY DAUGHTER, / YOU MAY FEEL” begins:
“Sometimes,” I tell my
daughter, “you may feel
one thing so strongly it
seems it’s the only true thing.”
“But then the feeling
splits into two, and you find
there are other true
things.”
She holds onto my hand and doesn’t look up.
“It’s also possible, of
course, to feel more than one thing.
Or for a single feeling
to break down steadily into other
feelings over time.”
She begins to cry.
There’s nothing more I can do. There
are, after all, only a
very few hours in the day; they, at
least, do not divide
endlessly.
I turn. She reaches after —.
There is a curious call-and-response element Skibsrud that employs in her book-length structure, offering poems with the occasional aside, akin to Greek chorus, providing further information and foundation to what it is she is slowly building. The narratives and legacies that Skibsrud weaves together alongside those of her (presumably) own first-person domestic considerations, including conversations with her daughter, utilize language to offer both warning and study, seeking to provide perspectives on histories lost or set aside, and what lessons might be garnered from those stories. The effect of becoming a mother to a young daughter, as Skibsrud, through both preface and the poems themselves suggest, push through a further examination of the legacies of women, and how too often those with something to offer have been ignored, pushed aside or silenced. I wonder if Skibsrud is aware of Gale Marie Thompson’s remarkable Helen Or My Hunger (Portland OR: YesYes Books, 2020) [see my review of such here], which focuses a book-length lyric gaze around Helen of Troy? Skibsrud’s aside to introduce the poem “LET THEM SLICE OFF OUR HEADS” reads:
Teresa of Ávila (1515-1582) was a Spanish mystic, writer, religious reformer, and spiritual guide. Her paternal grandfather had been a marrano, or converted Jew, at one point condemned by the Inquisition for returning to his Jewish faith. But Teresa was born a Christian and a noblewoman—her father having purchased a knighthood after securing success in the wool trade. Teresa was introduced to mystic writings and romance novels by her mother and, as a child, dreamed of running away to North Africa in order to martyr herself there. At the age of twenty, she entered a convent and, after struggling with doubt, achieved the powerful connection with God she desired. Her fellow nuns were sometimes obliged to sit on her, or tie her down, in order to keep her ecstatic and sometimes painful visions from quite literally carrying her away.
