Sarah Dowling
These Things Now for My Companions/I Shall Sing Beautifully
Sarah Dowling
Sarah Dowling is the author of Security Posture and Birds & Bees. Her poetry was included in the anthology I'll Drown My Book: Conceptual Writing by Women. She teaches at the University of Washington Bothell and is international editor at Jacket2. She currently lives in Toronto.
Sarah Dowling
These Things Now for My Companions/I Shall Sing Beautifully
Be it known that I carried a revolver, a willing
pistol into this century. I had an interesting name,
after all. I was Troy, Eureka, Etna and Antioch.
I scraped a big red gash. I was terrible but I for-
got. I took the older-than-being knives to beauti-
ful limbs. I named myself for the ancient poet-
ess. I called out to Athens, Rome, Albion, and
Arcadia. I thought the pluckers would forget,
somehow the pickers forgot me. I wrote, rosy-
fingered in smokeless powder. Few people in the
area were aware. In forty-nine Palmyras, forty-
eight Spartas, forty-five Senecas, thirty-nine
Phoenixes I penned a dead practice, I converted
my models to local names. All this I harvested,
missed, and forgot somehow—my vision dimmed
with tears.
I brought on heavier sleep, I willed all to black.
I carried the name of the family that settled these
thirty-three Uticas and thirty-one Corinths, twenty-
nine Omegas, twenty-seven Smyrnas and remade
the coming century. I was reddening high at the tip, I
pumped rounds into convenient targets and dream-
ed of twenty-four Olympias, twenty-three Clios,
and twenty-two Venuses who were all fond of
Sappho’s poetry. I ran across, being out of reach—
they didn’t notice—rather, they did but I took the
heavier revolvers. In Akron, in Delphi, in Altamont,
and Cambria, the apple-pickers missed me—I was
smokeless, amusingly soft. Twenty Catos, twenty
Ionias, and twenty Ovids, nineteen Hectors and
eighteen Orions told a little story about how I sur-
passed what I entered. I plucked the special accu-
racy of power. I plucked seventeen Solons, seven-
teen Atticas, seventeen Cincinnatis, seventeen Eu-
clids, Platos, Virgils, and Ciceros, I was plinking
in this terrible somehow. I gashed my own face,
turning high at the lips.
I entered Sylvanias through to Albas. I targeted
a mangle of friends. I was on the top-most branch.
I was bulky. I was willing to hit limbs, to be new.
I named eleven Utopias, eleven Cretes, and eleven
Hibernias. I took the state to have a case, a thing like
black, new will-to-power. I made excursions to ten
Neptunes, ten Scios, ten Aeolias, ten Corydons and
ten Jupiters. I reddened on the highest blush, a deli-
cate somehow. I was a soft flame. My skin reddened
to a target, semi-jacketed by the beautiful moon. I
was the honeyapple of Ithaca. I was a special kind
of Elysium. In this Rubicon, on this high branch, I
was a new century revolver. I entered eight Deltas,
seven Aurelias, Didos, and all my seven Mentors. I
just went down, and that was it. I was ripening and
turning red on the—reddening high on the—getting
ripe like that sweet Ida on the top-most bough. But
somehow there was this terrible gash and I couldn’t
reach it, I couldn't reach the Elyrias, the Lithias, the
Petras. None could get it, I just couldn’t.