Mary Wollstonecraft
The Great Inland Sea
Every mother is a monster
Love Poem At Thirty-Seven

Mary Wollstonecraft

Mary liked to walk
it was good for her mind
and for her melancholy
she was smart
rather than brilliant
suicidal at times, two attempts
she did not always know
how to behave
at dinner parties
she loved both men and women
three serious cases
 
Mary liked to travel
she travelled both away from and towards
for love to Portugal and to France
then away from England
and back again
 
She wrote little notes constantly
adored poetry that was out of fashion
disliked marriage
though she was married twice
and once for real
 
Mary’s father beat her
in retrospect her psychology seems simple
those who are not given love
search for it endlessly
 
Mary went to the edge of
the known earth
wrote to make a living
to avoid having to teach
and for the respect of men
which is something she wanted
very much

Once when Mary
saw the bluish bodies of
plankton glowing in the sea
she could not conceive
that she would die
but she did
and not so long after that
 
Of her daughters
one grew up to be famous
and one died young
 
 
//
 
 
For nine years I tried to
finish this poem 
I took away the ending
and put it back again
I changed what she saw in the water
Details that once felt so right
seemed suddenly obscure
Was I too harsh?
Too familiar?
 
And now, at last, or all too quickly
I’m the age Mary was when she died
I completed the length of her life
in my own dissimilar way
not burning through the cosmos
but like her I walked in melancholy
gave birth in great pain
loved, sometimes foolishly
and longed for respect
I tried to know the world and change it
if only a little
while I faced the dark speck of life to come
 
Through it all, I thought of her 
more often than you might suppose
felt a twinge of happiness
when her name arrived
 
Today is my birthday
It’s cold and not yet spring
The minutes tick by relentlessly
We will never know where we are on our way to
And I will never be content with this box of words
but I would like to leave it now
somewhere
teetering on the edge
without tipping over

The Great Inland Sea

three thirteen year olds spend the morning at a cliff
with medium-sized paintbrushes
a gardening trowel
and a wooden box 
one hundred million years passed by then the wind 
revealed a corner
like lifting the veil of a bride
or cracking open the curtains
of an abandoned motel
hello, crustacean of the late cretaceous period
unearthing this is their project for science camp
they dig it free
dust off an impression left in shale
and place it in box
it’s a hot day
at the bottom of the cliff a creek runs by
they wade in and stand in cool water 
then lie on their backs and float
washing off dust that’s one hundred million years old
all the insects around them are singing
loud and alive
what basement did they leave it in
what disaster will cover it next

Every mother is a monster

Your pain is a live wire and still I go
Catch a glimpse of you in the preschool window
This is no way to live, I think
This isn’t me
I couldn’t hurt you like that
not me not me

Love Poem At Thirty-Seven

After giving birth it starts to hurt.
And then there’s no drive left.
Like a spent animal who has outrun
her predator. No energy to
seek it out. The flesh, the breath,
the deflated balloon of skin, the marks.
What we need is in this order, air
water food and then love.
But I miss missing it. Where are
those people who met so long ago
and devoured each other.
Strangers. Full of an
awkward, infinite need,
so confused and unsure.
This morning I remember the bed 
on 11th and Broadway, the tropical bird 
on your shoulder. He looked like 
he might speak, but mostly
he shit. A too hot summer spent 
waiting for trains in subway stations. 
Taking sweaty selfies with your 
digital camera. Learning how to 
hula hoop drunk and high on 9th street. 
Fascinated by your elegant legs. The bar
in Washington Heights where I kissed
your ear. Getting lost on the way 
to the Cloisters. Bursting into tears 
at the Virgin Megastore on Union Square.
I wanted you that much.
A year later you met me at the airport 
in Copenhagen. A year after that 
we got married. Like babies.
I’m a prickly pear of a woman. 
But secretly I’d like to close
my eyes and wake up on 6th avenue.
Hundreds of people separated us,
and still I knew it was you. Let the rest 
decay, let memory abandon me here,
at rush hour, the press of bodies
on every side. The woodpecker sound
the crosswalk makes playing on a loop.
You in your off-white Levis making your way
in my direction. Me in my polo shirt dress
willing to wait all day.

Elizabeth Clark Wessel is the author of four chapbooks of poetry,
most recently first one thing, then the other (Per Diem Press), and
the translator of numerous novels, memoirs, and poems from the
Swedish, including the poetry collection I Want You To Come
Now! (Bloof Books) by Kristina Lugn. Along with Iris Cushing and
E.C. Belli, she is a founding editor of Argos Books. Originally from
rural Nebraska, she spent many years living in New York and
Connecticut, and these days calls Stockholm, Sweden home.