History of Knowledge
At the Tree
Never again seen garden of animals
unenclosed
except by ice
ibex
mammoth
salmon
trout
Raid a ridicule
buffalo reindeer in herds in hordes in motion in fullness
Stay away from the tree
not divided into fields
divided by rivers
lest you plant it
by mistake
and call it your own
It is not a tree
It is not a garden
It is forest and
moor it is cloud scraping ridges
and piercing
valley caverns
It is long lone desolate somber moor and causeway
It is little horses
It is leaping lamprey
It is hazel trees springing from a cave roof
It is deeper in the caves
It is looking up
It is the maelstrom pool of stars slipping slipping slipping away
It is
bell
it is escapement
cerise
apricot
hazelnuts
It is at peace
it is in motion
It is tilted this much it is leaning outward
It is body in a fountain
it is her body reflection and shadow
conformed in water
It is off-center
It is adrift
It is unwinding
It is remarked
barque
kayak
coracle
& the trees are smiling
The trees are smiling
the lovers are loving with great
with extreme courtesie
with speech
For Kafka
subtly the praying mantis lifts
its leaf-stick body laced with fire glint
—engraved tracing of dioxin
a condensery become a crematory
—mint— was that
what was meant?
“a book” succumbs
the sea frozen fathoms thick
axe handle porous riddled : blight
Offered Up
1
Feed the dead. Dear god.
Do they eat? Do they get enough?
Must I go back to the door
in the cave where they wait,
re-enter it, undress,
make food of my flesh?
My life depends on
amnesia for its strength,
for its rhythms on shock : abrupt
reversals that do what they have to,
shut the child inside up.
I ask myself always
did she give in?
Did she smile and drop her head?
She has a strange deafness
hearing only what is said.
People feed the dead in Haiti.
I read it in a book.
2
Let the dead bury the dead.
Whoever grieves for flesh,
whoever serves it is
dead—that’s what I was told,
catechism I was raised on. It raised me,
though it was wrong, brutal
and felt cold
from the beginning.
Jesus speaking. Jesus preaching.
The disciples say to him
your mother is waiting.
I have no mother.
But where is she?
Was he fibbing?
3
A frightened child overhears. A terrified
child listens too hard—
does it mean
the ashes are embers that linger?
The kindest voice lied. Yes,
I heard wrong. What I heard right
is wrong. And has cost all I have, now
to bow down—and now to take up
lively Lord Death, sunglasses, rum breath, antic
strut, lime satin, tin cup. Stealing food
—and cigars—for Antigone alive in her cave,
I sidle, hunch. Disappear. Grin.
Keeping Company With You : Coma
—the gills still swimming
with you, breathing for you, tumbling backward
toward some
future. Shallow breath,
a passing shiver. Your dream of light,
knowing no other
time, moves inside
rocking shadow of water, as if some
one still
stood on the broken
patio, haggling for hours
the price of a pool
lamp, its broken cord.
Stephanie Strickland’s books include How the Universe Is Made: Poems New & Selected (2019) and Ringing the Changes (2020), a code-generated project for print based on the ancient art of tower bell-ringing. “For Kafka” first appeared in How the Universe Is Made. Earlier work includes True North, Dragon Logic, and The Red Virgin: A Poem of Simone Weil, as well as 12 collaborative digital poems, most recently “Liberty Ring!” (2020). Thanks to Lana Turner for publishing “History of Knowledge,” to Talisman for “Offered Up,” and to Tupelo Quarterly for “Keeping Company With You : Coma.” These poems are part of Truth Holder, forthcoming in 2025 from MadHat Press. http://stephaniestrickland.com