Lines composed after watching Manual Cinema's production of Frankenstein

I wrote then—

but in a most common-

place style. It was beneath 

the trees of the grounds 

belonging to our house,

or on the bleak sides 

of the woodless 

mountains near, 

that my true compositions,

the airy flights 

of my imagination, 

were born and fostered. 

(Interpretation: mother watching Manual Cinema's Frankenstein)

Here are the mechanics:

Take a feather from the family land

and press into paper

Carve an ageless story into 

big ancient rocks, any old tree

Take a mallet to a major scale,

over-hanging dinnerware

rush suspense

up and down a pipe organ

Add wonder from the ready-beating

heart in the laboratory jar.

(Transmission: mother to daughter, after watching film)

Use feather, lash

and stolen lipstick

as implements.

Separate the mortal

from the monster then

meld the two. 

Tear yourself asunder

from uncertainty. 

Improvise the countryside

like a blown wish

every hole in the earth

a mixing bowl of

phantasmagoria

(Interpretation: mother watching Manual Cinema's Frankenstein)

This film and 

Frankenstein

are gothic 

imagination. New

genre. Prometheus

punching fire through

a rainstorm, no longer

bound to a rock. Mary's baby 

Clara under a gravestone.   

A mother making a living 

document from sorrow. 

(Transmission: mother to daughter, after watching film)

My natural birth of you,

pain splitting

into joy

for thirteen hours

my eyes mostly closed 

into the center of myself 

I could only point

and hope the doula understood. 

(Interpretation: mother watching Manual Cinema's Frankenstein)

Here, 

Mary Shelley's on a screen as

big as her book.

Pages are little doors

bigger doors biggest door

opening.

All the lightning!

Bandages only a genius-

creator and loving mother

dare to unwrap.

(Transmission: mother to daughter, after watching film)

The birth of you my new 

baseline. Every threshold ever

after, much higher

My heart beating over any

tyrannical zeal saying it's

too early for you to be

a feminist, too unusual  

to insist on a Halloween

birthday party in late-November.

(Interpretation: mother watching Manual Cinema's Frankenstein)

Mary examines mad 

amalgamation up-close

enough to kiss

its patched and midnighted cheek. 

(Transmission: mother to daughter, after watching film)

For you, nothing's

a broken or bound thing

everything's dandelion wild.

(Interpretation: mother watching Manual Cinema's Frankenstein)

So many in the literary world

said, Oh, a 

man wrote this story!

Whoever penned "Frankenstein" was

not a girl. In no way, a young, young woman. 

Now, Mary Shelley's lightning

renders cinema. 

We are clapping for her genius:

Such gothic stun and wonder!

Such---such---wild running!

Louder and louder the applause 

for Mary, for the moon

rising over something

she named.

(Transmission: mother to daughter, after watching film)

The sight of your eyelashes

feather-dusting your cheeks

as you sleep

My child, how you smile

the moon!

The marvel:

Watching you take problems 

from the wishing tree

and solve them

run the rocks and dips

on a bicycle, your little

legs as wheels.

(Interpretation: mother watching Manual Cinema's Frankenstein)

The reprise. We shout

to Mary: 

Again! 

Channel electric strikes

pulsing light bulbs

Show us palms life-lined

by lightning, crescent 

moon and mirror. 

(Transmission: mother to daughter, after watching film)

Your umbilical 

cord absorbed

a lightning storm.

Terror and 

transcendence

tongued 

and grooved.

You moved into

the world with

tousle, too much 

blood rushing.

A month

in the natal care unit.

Intensive bounding

ever after. 

(Interpretation: mother watching Manual Cinema's Frankenstein)

Mary waited five years 

and two editions to say,

Yes, I wrote this book.

Only I could have

written this book. 

(Transmission: mother to daughter, after watching film)

I'm convinced you are part 

Mary Shelley. Bloodlined to

days of transparent plates

short print runs, nights 

of magic lanterns

You area

motion picture and

Lumiére

On the white bluff

a heron maker

patch-worker

spark.

(Narration: Mary Shelley, from the preface to Frankenstein, 1831 edition)

And now,

once again, 

I bid my hideous 

progeny go forth

and prosper.

I have an affection

for it, for it was

the offspring 

of happy days

when death and grief

were but words

which found no true

echo in my heart. 

(Transmission: mother to daughter, after watching film)

Sweet wren,

make something unheard of

from your world with its

tall trees,

unfenced creatures.

Let's see what's blinking

into certainty in your mind.

Declare it as though every

word belonged

in a best seller

on every stage

as though 

the world 

would never

doubt you.