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Shelley Scott
(1949-1998)
Shelley Scott took many poetry workshops throughout her academic career, studying with poets who included Carolyn Forché, Richard Hugo, and Colette Inez. She traveled extensively through Europe and parts of Brazil and in later years did volunteer work for the National Organization for Women.
In February 1981, Shelley was in a car accident that resulted in subsequent brain surgery and two years of rehabilitation. The event irrevocably changed her life. She stated that for the first time “I knew what it was like to suffer.”
The City Opened Like a Woman
—for Amy Smith
The city opened like a woman
I took her straight
rode the slender thigh of the highway
glowed flesh under fluorescent
On the streets she looked good
thumbed me down Santa Monica and Vine
her shawl of hair caught yellow neon
Tommy’s No. 5 fading
She hadn’t eaten three days
“A quarter, miss?” I flipped her 25
her face painted Kabuki white
blue dragon wings curved her eyes
Hung at the Zero Club
did lines one a.m. till dawn
took Laurel* numb I came so easy down
her canyon opened to the Valley
the city opened like a woman
and I took her
*Laurel Canyon running from Hollywood to the San
Fernando Valley
Six Months
Six months now
I’ve watched shadows streak
had my belly sucked
went sleepless for six nights
and watched my breasts
pale as moons
shrink to the bone
while you hitchhiked to L.A.
a ruby in your ear
poems folded in your back pocket
and never once did you look back.
Now I’m tired, hole gorged
I could
lie on your belly
stab your flesh with my hips
kiss the blood from over-ripe lips
I could
forget that I am a woman
bite your neck
drag my nails down your back
I could
let this body go.
I want out
no more these nights
vodka pure, gin bitter
no more this love
licking this knife
that bitch consumes me
she won’t let go
I wear teeth marks on my hand.
Six months
my heart in a coma
I’m a stand-up comic
a corpse with a smile
a vampire who rises at dusk.
I’ve had enough
there is no more.
Before the Crowd
—for Víctor Jara, Chilean folksinger killed after the overthrow of Allende
He stood before the crowd
blood jetted from his wrists
there was no pen on the table
where his hand lay
there was no paper beneath his fingers
he stood naked
bullets foamed, the people rose
heat rays in the dry, dead sun
the wind was red
the grass lay wet
fingers throbbed hot on steel
the people rose
glittering bayonets, voices cracked
women fell, the men twitched
he watched his people feed the earth
Incantation
Finger to the wind
the cold of an early frost
my bones cracking
the creek freezes the hearts of fish
I feel the rise
knees, thighs, chest constricts
on my knees I circle the fire
eyes gold, hair bristling
behind me the mountains hulk
I swallow my spit, hiss in the dark.
We stood on the Left Bank
arched above us gargoyles grinned
if they smile for you
a spell is cast
we knelt on cobbled streets
incantations, le loup exist
candle low in your hands
a white flame seared our lips
wax melted into the sea.
You stare to the West
do not hear the waves
there is a drought in the Alps
first time in twenty years
from St. Jean
you send me pieces of snow
I want to tell you
my mouth glued, hands buttressed,
We met in Ostend
the sun low
a red sea pulsed
one white wave foamed
every hour the ships left
took pieces of me to California.
Now you say
from Firenze
the Statue of David grimaces
his marble chest shattered.
About Death
What I hate most
They never ask permission
Just die before you can say goodbye
And thanks for the love
You carry your grief
Nothin’ worse than leftover
Love used time’s up
No place in your heart
Hand-me-down
Second place love
No fillin’ that hole
No comin’ back
All the poems above except “About Death” (1994) are from Shelley Scott’s collection Peeling (Baltimore: The New Poets Series/Chestnut Hills Press, 1989). “Six Months” was published previously in the journal Images.
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