Boy In Disintegration Loop
WINNER OF THE 2021 PINK POETRY PRIZE
““Boy In Disintegration Loop” is beautifully composed, rhythmically elliptical and sonically digressive. The poem moves like a cassette moves—each lush image gets cast from left reel to right, turning inside out before emerging as another, wholly unexpected image. In that way, this piece goes beyond an ekphrastic conversation with William Basinski and into a new, more metaphoric gesture. A bright octave that is full of astute turns and imagistic leaps each more surprising than the previous.”
Head on a string, body
far, far, far below as far
away from him as far away
can be, for a boy, listening
to wind swishing
and swershing through
clouds as feathery
as a Christmas beard
in late December. Oh
where, oh where, is the boy
going? Head so far away
from earth and school
and mother and all
ways of boys, where
on earth is a voice
for a boy with his head
on a string? An echo,
at first, an echo from far
away returning to the boy
as a sister might
after a long visit
from far away. An echo
at first, before clearing
like a bell
the boy’s head
and attracting all birds
to the sound
of the voice, rising
from an echo, a voice
so familiar, so true
it could not be anything
but his own voice
coming to him
at once. At once
his head enlarged
and in doing so
his head floated further
out, the string
stretching out as far
as it can stretch, the voice
of the boy ringing
in clouds. In clouds
the boy sang, sang
all afternoon. The afternoon
ringing and floating
along like a lark. Body
so far, far, far
away. Away was too far
for his body
to catch up. The boy,
ais voice returning
from far away, behind
him, behind him, gone.
Correcting/ My Walk
So hard/ to hear mother’s/ commands. “All good/and true”/ in the world is correct/
as we/ went up/down the hill. Her/ demanding,/ correcting./ “All which is correct,”/
correct beat/ laid out/ by her feet./ “Elbows outs, open, relaxed”/ as a fact
can relax/ when its sitting/ on the page. It is. You/ are. Mother, bids,/ corrects.
Love, a measure./ “Less swinging/ like gate. Less/ twirling./ Like with Jenny/
in the garage? Trust/ mother to take care/ of every aspect/ that needs/ correction.”
Come through, voices/ sing, over here, voices/ sing. So hard/ to hear. Commands,/
as we/ went up /down the hill, “Elbows out. Don’t/ swing like a bell,”/ correcting
softness. Come/through. Caught/ one too many times/ in the jewelry/ dish. Magpie/
heart on a chain/hanging around/ the neck. Mother./ To instruct. To correct/
every defect/ in my gait./ Worry wrung/night’s so, so./ So worried that she loved/
a what?/ Measuring “this/ this this this”/ to say/ after a stretch/ of block, “correct!”
Was it/ Wonder/ Woman? Me, Diana, twirling/ with Jenny/ in the garage? Wonder
Woman/whipping bullets/back/ by spinning on heels. I could be anyone./ “Correct./
No/ Hoola hips./ No swinging/ like a gate. Elbows in,/ arms out flexing,/ not two tongues/
wagging, going/ on and on.” There’s something wrong. Something wrong. Correct,/
There’s something wrong/ with my,...there’s something/ wrong./ On the first day no one/
at school/ believed I was a boy?/ Was it that? Was it/ teacher/ calling home to correct
mother?/ Mother’s crone? The crone’s crone/ voiceless. Love must/ adjust and prim/
and prime/ up/up/up. I told stories to myself/ when alone. In my head,/ correct./
A mirror?/ A void/ and look/ at what good mother willed/, correct./ Come Christmas,
Batman/ costumes, Batman/ wings./ A mother loves/ her son enough/ to correct.
About the author
Stephen Scott Whitaker is a member of the National Book Critics Circle and the co-editor of The Broadkill Review. A teaching artist with the Virginia Commission for the Arts, an educator, and a grant writer, Whitaker’s poems have appeared in Fourteen Hills, The Shore, Crab Creek Review, The Citron Review, and other journals. Mulch, a novel of weird fiction is forthcoming from Montag Press in 2021. Find Whitaker on Twitter @SScottWhitaker.