I gave them emo titles like
“Anxiety Pinwheel” and
“Entrance to Death.”
Wayne gave me an A
for the “Rorschach Test” series,
which left space for viewers
to write what they saw.
(Unsurprisingly, lots of
boobs and butts.)
I’d been in kind of a slump,
thinking I was done, all
spore-printed out, when Dad
called me over to his laptop.
Hey, Jorie, take a look at this.
Amanita phalloides, by Chris Drury
A large white spore print on a black background.
Beautifully symmetrical.
Dad traces the gill lines across the screen
with his finger. They’re words. See?
It’s like foraging.
At first I don’t see,
and then suddenly I do:
manitaphalloidesamanitaphalloidesamanitaphalloidesamanitaphalloides
Curving out from the center,
row upon row of tiny script.
Wow. I shake my head. Imagine
how long it must have taken to write all that.
You could do more than imagine. Dad
leans back in his chair. You could find out.
Tell Him
A part of me wanted to
tell him off
tell him who was he to
tell me what I should do?
tell him he ruined our family
tell him I was sick of pretending he didn’t
tell him Mom was a masochistic idiot
tell him maybe he could con her into forgiving him
tell him I wasn’t that gullible
tell him I wish I had the guts to say these things out loud
but maybe I could
tell him in my art, so I
tell him
I’ll give it a try.
Birth of the Spore Print Diaries
I showed Wayne Amanita phalloides
and said I was contemplating doing something similar.
Would that be copying?
He told me that good artists copy,
but great artists steal. Maybe Picasso said
that and maybe he didn’t, but either way
it’s worth remembering.
Um, so that’s a yes?
Wayne continued. Think of it this way.
Shakespeare wrote sonnets, but that doesn’t mean
he owned the format. You’d be borrowing
this guy’s template, but the content would be your own.
You could say anything you want.
First I Had to Teach Myself
to write
really small
Pet Food
In the reptile section, Esther says, I don’t see
why you want to give your dad your art.
I’m not giving him anything. I hold up
a wide blue bowl. Think this looks big enough?
Tony needs a water dish he can lounge in
without his pudgy tail flopping over the edge.
Okay, except you are giving him something.
Your psychic energy. Your time. It’s, like, not
healthy. Hasn’t Esther ever heard of
catharsis? Hey, go grab me some
crickets. Pretty please? She shudders but
relents. Comes back with a bag. Holds
it close to her eyes. Shakes her head.
One minute they’re hopping around living
their carefree cricket lives. The next minute
they’re dinner. So sad.
Maybe Esther’s Right
Not all art has to be
intense and personal.
I could write anything.
Pick any random word.
Elevator or detergent or snail.
Hashbrownshashbrownshashbrownshashbrowns
Petunia or lamppost or car.
Mirror or face or lies or broken or
scream.
Channeling
A mushroom
doesn’t need to think,
it just stands there, relaxed,
while the spores spill out.
After an hour of chilling
with my notebook,
letting thoughts drift
down onto the page,
I’ve got eight lines,
all crossed out.
Oh. Right.
Before a mushroom can
stand there, relaxed,
it’s got to bust its way out
of the ground.
At the Gym
You really think he’s over her? Kat
I mean, a bank robber doesn’t stop
loving money just because he gets caught.
I shrug. That’s what Mom wants
to believe. You’re really gonna make me
do this? She knows my upper-body strength
is nonexistent. That I’m just here
so she doesn’t have to suffer through
the Lifter Kings alone. The bar is only
forty-five pounds, she says. My great-grandma
could lift it. Woman up, buttercup.
I sigh, lie down, let Kat adjust my grip.
Like a moth to a lightbulb, a Lifter King
swoops in. Can I give you a tip? I tell him
we didn’t sign up for a trainer.
I’m not a trainer. This one is older,
but they come in all ages, sizes, levels
of swole. Exactly, Kat says. If we want
advice, we’ll ask for it.
Sometimes—rarely—they apologize,
but this one gives the typical scowl. Relax,
honey. I was just trying to help.
As he struts off toward the locker rooms,
Kat laughs. I wish men weren’t so
predictable. My arms shake. The bar
wobbles. Tilts. The words to a new
art piece start forming inside my head.
See, muscle queen. Kat looms
above me, grinning. I knew you could
do it! Only fourteen more to go!
Wayne Loved It
Though it made him sad for me,
that nature was no escape,
but I assured him it wasn’t so bad,
that I’ve figured out ways to deal.
For instance, I’ll bring a canvas bag
instead of a basket, so no one can
see my haul, and if I really want to
repel potential mansplainers,
the bag will be pink and sequined
so they’ll assume I’m just out hiking
with my purse.
Carbon Sink
I love Chris Drury’s website. That’s where I found
“Carbon Sink: What Goes Around, Comes Around,”
a thirty-six-foot vortex of charred logs and coal.
Drury installed the piece in 2011, but it might
as well be today. It sat in front of the University
of Wyoming’s art museum. People were into it.
The coal industry? Not so much.
WTF?
WTF, University of Wyoming?
We give you tons of money, and you give us this pile of . . .
Turns out they’re not big fans of anything
that calls them out for destroying the planet!
Drury claimed that his goal was
to “inspire conversation,”
so the coal companies said,
Great. We’re inspired
to withhold university funding.
Thanks for the chat.
So “Carbon Sink,” well,
sank.
Removed because of “water damage”
from a broken irrigation line.
But nobody bought that flimsy excuse.
It started a conversation about
censorship.
&
nbsp; Drury did what he set out to do:
he inspired. Sure, they could remove
his sculpture, but not his ideas.
Once art is made,
it’s not so easy to unmake it.
Once it’s out there for everyone to see,
you can’t just pull the plug.
Backstory
Or course Chris Drury didn’t have to say
where he got those logs—from trees killed
by pine beetles—or why it mattered—because
pine beetles thrive in global warming.
He could have kept the meaning to himself.
Maybe then “Carbon Sink” would still exist.
Everyone would see it as nothing more
than a cool design, a pleasing shape, an obstacle
to detour around on the way to class. It would still
be swirling across that lawn. Bland. Unobjectionable.
Wayne Liked This One, Too
But
he thinks the title
could be ironic,
since there’s always someone
who is allergic to vanilla,
hates kittens,
blames Mr. Rogers
for failing to
make him feel special
enough.
Wayne says it’s impossible
to know what will push
somebody’s buttons,
so we might as well
lean into the fear.
Every piece should
scare you a little.
That’s the sign
you’re doing it right.
A.T.B.
It was easy
A.T.B.
(After The Breakup)
to do things together
as friends—
binge-watch David Attenborough
(and not make out),
ride bikes on the rail trail
(no water-break PDA!),
go for sushi
(only spicy thing here is the tuna roll!),
sing along with Dorothy
at Movies Under the Walkway
(“Somewhere over the rainbow . . .”
oh, all right, maybe just one little
kiss).
The Off-Season
Wayne doesn’t believe in breaks.
That’s why he always schedules
an art show in early October.
Because if we want to have art to show,
we can’t lie around all summer,
unless we’re on our backs
repainting the Sistine Chapel.
He tells us that LeBron James
still trains in the off-season,
and then—for those who speak
MOMA, not NBA—Georgia O’Keeffe
didn’t paint one poppy and call it a day.
In Common
My new piece is called
“Family Resemblance.”
It’s inspired by research
that shows mushrooms,
evolutionarily speaking,
are more closely related
to humans than plants.
On the gill lines
I start writing everything
Great-great-great-uncle Fungus
and I have in common:
We are eukaryotes.
We don’t contain chlorophyll.
We lack roots, leaves, flowers, and seeds.
We digest our food with enzymes.
We enjoy a heavy rain.
We hang out under trees.
We aren’t athletic.
We don’t play the ukulele.
We rarely wear makeup.
We don’t see the point of microwave popcorn.
We are bad at making memes.
We can’t tell the difference between Ryan Gosling and Ryan Reynolds.
Hmmmmmm, clearly
I’m not really feeling it.
Keep Trying, Bro
If Ian wasn’t there
I probably would have
exploded, torn the letter
to shreds, and left the shrapnel
on my parents’ bedroom floor.
He told me to Be the bigger person.
How would you would feel if your dad
ripped up something of yours?
Not convincing.
Okay, then think about your mom.
She’ll come home and be all,
What’s this? And what are you
going to tell her? Oh, it’s just
your husband’s secret love letter.
Exactly! She should know.
Try again?
It doesn’t mean they’re back together.
She moved to Ohio. He might not
even remember he has it.
Or he’s holding on to it
Because he still has feelings for her.
Next!
Maybe. Maybe not.
But why destroy the evidence?
Good point.
I took a picture with my phone
and left the bomb in the drawer,
ticking.
Inspiration
After the hike,
I came home and got
straight to work.
A Different Perspective
Peach-colored paper
framed with pale-green vines.
That stationery seemed
lovely when all it held
were instructions for
feeding Leo, her cat.
Now it has given me
a glimpse of what she and Dad
were really doing at those
“conferences” while I was
bringing in her mail and scooping
salmon flakes into a bowl.
BTW, I Never Saw Leo
No matter how much I cooed
and called his name.
The I.S. told me not to
take it personally. He’s shy.
Though now I would say
he’s smart.
Better to hide,
listen, watch, wait,
than to trust someone
trying too hard
to seem harmless.
Without the Context
In September,
I show Wayne my work in progress.
He’s underwhelmed.
Your text is a little generic.
What else could he think?
He assumes it’s my own
bland stanza,
my mushy teen anthem,
that I’m baring my soul
like an emo Instagram poet.
It’s not like
I’m going to
reveal my source
yet.
With the Context
Ian laughs. I mean you might as well have called it
“Go fuck yourself, Dad.”
Rage
I can’t remember what Mom said
to set me off, maybe nothing.
A blast of anger hit me all at once,
and I couldn’t stop. Calling her
a bitch, a fucking idiot, a stupid—
I can’t even write the word,
but somehow it rolled out of me,
like heat from an open oven,
and she just stood there and took it,
so I slapped her face, and it was like
smacking a stone, a wall, a pole,
and I was crying and thinking, Why
is she letting me do this, Why isn’t she
fighting back? And when the answer
came, I could almost see it, like it was
written in the air: Because she loves you.
And then I woke up.
Elegant Stinkhorn (Mutinus elegans)
Long, thin, tapered, red,
coated in olive-green slime,
it has other names: headless
stinkhorn, devil’s dipstick, dog’s penis.
Commonly found thrusting up
from mulch in parks or yards,
its
stench attracts insects, particularly
flies. Hey, they can’t help how
they’re wired. To them, rotting flesh
smells like rosebuds. Our shit is
their cake. It’s not their fault if
we can’t understand their perspective.
I wish I could give Mom a break.
Overcompensating
It was just a dream,
but I still feel guilty
enough not to leave
my dirty dishes
in the sink, and to start
the kettle so her tea
is ready when she
comes downstairs
and says, You made me
breakfast? Am I dying?
as I serve her toast
with honey and say,
I just want you to
have a good day,
and she gives me a hug
and says, You, too,
sweetie, and I guess
I must be staring
because she adds,
What? Do I have
lipstick on my cheek?
and I lie and say,
A little and rub away
the imaginary mark.
Practice
Yes, our pieces should speak
for themselves, but part of being artists,
Wayne says, is knowing how to articulate
our vision, our motivation, which is why
he won’t let us hide by the snack table,
but wants us standing beside our work
at the art show, pretending it’s our debut
at some swank Chelsea gallery, answering
every polite question from somebody’s
bewildered grandma as if we’re talking to
Roberta Smith, top critic for the New York Times.
Damn. Kat whistles. Are you going to tell the truth?
And Esther says, Practice on me. She cocks her head.
Taps her chin. Contemplates the bare wall. So,
young lady, what’s your piece about? But when
I look at her, all I can see is my mother,
waiting for yet another bullshit explanation.
Laetiporus sulphureus
Fanning out over wounded oak,