Laurie Uttich

Laurie Uttich

TO MY STUDENT WITH THE DIME-SIZED BRUISES ON THE BACK OF HER ARMS WHO’S STILL ON HER CELLPHONE

Oh honey, you can text him, you can like his meme, you can

follow him on Twitter and to Target, you can ride shotgun, hold

his anger on your lap, pet his pride, be his ride or die. You can

wear those jeans he likes. You can discover Victoria’s

secret, buy a bra with a mind of its own. You can

recite I’m sorry like it’s a Bible verse and Snapchat the shit out

of those purple roses he bought you at Publix. You can try

every one of Cosmo’s 30 Ways to Give an Ultimate Blowjob.

You can remember the name of his mother, his best friend

in 2nd grade, the lunchroom lady who gave him extra

chicken strips on Tuesdays. You can grow out your bangs, toss

your hometown over your shoulder, sleep facing north

with your cheek in his back.

You can strip yourself for parts. But, baby,

it still won’t be enough. You can love him, but you can’t pull

his story out of the dark and slide your arms into it. You can’t

wash it and lay it flat in the sun to soften. You can’t

hold his face in both of your palms and watch tomorrow

bloom from the sheer wanting and waiting of it. It doesn’t

matter if his daddy talked with his hands or his bloodline

is marinated in booze or his mama loved his brother best.

You can’t fix what somebody else broke.

So, girl, put down your phone and pick up

your pen. Take a piece of the dark and put it on a page.

Sylvia Plath waits to wash your feet. And look,

Virginia Woolf has built you another room and painted

it pink. There’s a place for you at the table. Sit next to me;

I got here late. Oh, baby, don’t you feel it? You were knit

for wonder in your mother’s womb.

You were born for the driver’s seat.

—from Rattle #69, Fall 2020
Tribute to Service Workers

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Laurie Uttich: “At fifteen, I started what would be a ten-plus-year ‘career’ in the service industry. I’ve been a florist assistant, a server, a cocktail waitress, a bartender, a catering assistant, a donut shop worker, a ‘bar cart girl’ at a golf course, and other jobs. I typically worked one or two jobs regularly and then picked up a third when I needed more money. After getting my first ‘real’ job as a copywriter, I continued to work at various service jobs to pay off my student loans (and cover the rent). I don’t know who I’d be without spending so much time under the scrutiny of men (and sometimes women) who first tried to decide if I was attractive enough to hire … and then, later, by men who were customers and often intoxicated. I think about that girl back then and when I imagine my younger self behind a bar or squeezing between two tables balancing a tray, I see myself so clearly as prey, my face frozen into a smile. I suppose the easy response is that being a part of these environments made me a feminist poet, but that’s oversimplifying it. I was always an observer, but being in a situation where it feels as if anything could happen—and you’re supposed to be friendly right up until the second it turns into something else, and who knows when that will be?—shapes how I view situations and how I address them in my work. In prose, I’m always couching reflections—‘not all men’ and that sort of thing. In poems, I just swim in the emotion of the moment and I don’t worry about any global conclusions a reader might make.” (web)

Laurie Uttich

SOMETIMES PETER, BUT NEVER PAUL

It’s ridiculous to still believe in God:

to say the word Divine and feel it blush

purple in that place where you still wake at night.

But there it is, its hand heavy on your head.

To say the word Divine and feel it blush

on your tongue, a woman much too old to believe:

but there it is, its hand heavy on your head.

Prayers rise in the dark, ghosts of those you love

on your tongue. A woman much too old to believe,

but still you call the names of saints you knew.

Prayers rise in the dark, ghosts of those you love.

Mary, Teresa, sometimes Peter, but never Paul …

you still call the names of saints you knew.

And sometimes when you do, your grief grows gills.

Mary, Teresa, sometimes Peter, but never Paul:

there’s no sense to any of it at all.

But sometimes when you do, your grief grows gills

and purples that place where you still wake at night.

There’s no sense to any of it at all.

It’s ridiculous to still believe in God.

—from Rattle #45, Fall 2014
Tribute to Poets of Faith

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Laurie Uttich: “Every week, I sit on a hard pew and I say the words I learned as child, many of those words spoken first by Jesus … a teacher, a healer, an activist, and, for me, a savior. I believe in activism. I believe in living as Jesus taught: feed the poor, house the homeless, care for the imprisoned, speak for the marginalized. I believe Jesus wouldn’t ask for immigration papers or drug tests or care if two men loved each other; and I’m often troubled by the label ‘Christian’ and the way it has come to mean intolerance and, sometimes, hate. I am also weak and worry at times what others think of me—my smart, cynical friends who find my beliefs to be at best ‘quirky,’ and, at worst, a construct I’ve created to feel better … something I should have outgrown by now, especially as an ‘academic.’ So, while I may at times stay silent—as guilty and ashamed as Peter who denied Christ three times—I am a Christian and, hopefully, a bit of a poet. It’s more difficult to communicate how my faith affects my poetry. It shows up unexpectedly, and it’s not always welcome. I once wrote an essay about what it means to be a writer and I realized that as a child I found God on a white sheet of paper. It would not have occurred to me to leave it blank. On good days, it still doesn’t.” (web)

Rattle: Poetry

… without pretension since 1995.

November 23, 2020

March 2, 2015