The Dottery

The Dottery

Copyright Date: 2014
Pages: 72
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  • Book Info
    The Dottery
    Book Description:

    The Dotteryis a tale of dotters before they are born. In this series of prose poems you meet their would-be-mutters, the buoys they will know, their inner warden, and the mutterers who cannot have them.The Dotteryitself is a sort-of pre-purgatory, a finishing school for the fetal feminine. The five sections correspond to the conceptual set-ups interrogated within. In "wound,"The Dotteryis described, as are its inhabitants and their difficulties. In "Dual," a gender binary is introduced and (hopefully) eviscerated. "Triage" establishes the issues that plague both the dotters and those who would bring them out into the world-specifically into the idea of America (I'm Erica and I can prefer a hummer to the rose parade"). In "Fear," failed dotters (out in the world) are described in obit fashion. Finally, in "Thief" one mutterer recounts how she stole her dotter ("a snatched piece") to become a mutter and chronicles both her desires and regrets.

    eISBN: 978-0-8229-8032-2
    Subjects: Language & Literature

Table of Contents

  1. Front Matter
    (pp. i-vi)
  2. Table of Contents
    (pp. vii-x)
  3. 1. WOUND
    (pp. 1-10)

    The first dottery was called Limbo.

    Before the first dottery was shut down it had twenty million legs across the steppes. It was like a thaw. It meant itself too, almost exclusively. Before it was eliminated, consigned to the once-drawer, the curio-city, Limbo was overdant—so lush with the unspoken it pirouetted on its own face, on the rolling buttocks of its own hills. It was a plague of giraffes, chewing trees, preventing oxygen. Beatific. Before it was sent to your room, where it waits still, in ancient meditation on bedframe, the first dottery was a vibrant bully—out storking...

  4. 2. DUAL
    (pp. 11-26)

    I was a dotter on the field. I was wind. I ground my teeth and took the buoys down by their chains. Shark, I careened beneath grass or under woodchips surrounding equipment. I adored equipment. Net, bars, anything jailish. Missiles too. What dotter doesn’t love a thrown thing? Fight. Kiss. Gauntlet. On the field a dotter can work the war, other than to sew or whore. Can take the furies usually pled out through fingertips and torso them, or limb them all to hell. On the field was where I met my holies. My Jack, my Charlie, my Mark, my...

  5. 3. TRIAGE
    (pp. 27-42)

    Entering the dottery, slipped: a threshold creased with lard. From your ass, the dotters lining the walls looked less like cringing. So many unached fors. Aborted ones of porcelain. Daffodillings. Tin-roofed and footed ones and straw others and ones of brickshit.If, if,if I had a square ass.A grandmutter quipped through the building. Engine. Dotters do not want chosen. They want ungotten, dropped into batter for later expansion—to be needful, doubled in earnest. But from ass-on-threshold, the dottery seemed not rhapsodic, rather a school with room for the willing. All the dotters could poltergeist. They were all too...

  6. 4. FEAR
    (pp. 43-58)

    the Typist’s dotter

    played the clarinet. It was so musical, and there was the whole open mouth thing, the stroking of the reed with the flat of the tongue, the gentle bites that nudged the pliable wood into correct contact with the mouthpiece. She liked especially the upper register. She liked it bird-in-the-tree rather than bird-in-the-water. It mattered to her that the rhythms written for the clarinet were substantively different than the rhythms written for flute or for oboe. She did not yearn to be elsewhere. The syncopation, she felt, though autumn, was so tip of the tongue, so candy....

  7. 5. THIEF
    (pp. 59-76)

    She rifled through the vasectomy papers. It wasn’t there. An irrevocability clause. She’d come to the lockbox unbeknownst. From the beginning she’d held onto the solar guarantee. She’d stapled it to her nipple—the least favorite, on the teabag breast. Days. She had been given days, and lit ones. But was she then barred from revolution, the inside of her own throat, its muscled slope? She would not hatch. But not ever? It had to be in the language, something she had missed agreeing to. A mention of the zeroed, the unconnected, the ganymedes, spurt and over. Someone had drawn...

    (pp. 77-77)