Noraa Neither Kaplan: 3 Poems
Denude
What proof can I give that I cannot work,
that my very brain is bruised?
Shall I be unborn?
I speak of abhorrence, the sting of sinew.
Ablaze with birth, the baby bereft
of camera and credibility
who cannot be trusted
with the shoelaces of the truth.
They say a good lawyer is the best kind of nurse,
and a foot in the grave never hurt.
In this case, I am excused.
Lo and behold, ladies and germs!
From pain, fully formed, a woman is born—
swaddled and given a sucker,
coddled and cradled, besmirched by the new.
I’ve put the leeches on my tongue,
so ask me away
all your questions.
Only let me be heard for what I am—
for what else can I do?
Disfigurement
maimed—maimed!
by the ugliness of life
my skindeep desire
and my own lazy eye
it was just a dream
i wanted to have
a muscle
to atrophy away
to dispense with formalities
the banality of hope
i’ll never be happy
as everyone knows
so i take time to seethe
and i take time to yearn
it would almost be nice
if it wasn’t for nothing
if i only had something
to devote
but no one reads these poems
and no one knows how to cope
Mahanaim
“What will we see in you, Shulamit? A dance between two camps.”
—Song of Songs 6:13
my head is split
into two camps
one is a jubilation of death
a triumphal arc
cut from the same cloth
as judith, jael, and joan
where jack and jill both
are ripped to red ribbons
that flag from harlots’ windows
and all sins are forgiven
through rivulets of blood
where every man must stir
at the knowledge of his name
for a jawbone of an ass
can make him lie down
my ass says he can go no further
without someone to eat
and like manna from heaven
this camp gives to me
the ecstasy of i told you so
the testament of pleasure
and torture in full bloom
the other camp is not peace
or quiet piety
it is the thundering, undeniable rapture
of a babbling brook
baby animal videos on my feed
birdcall wakes me here
where i cry all the time
for every thing that hurts
and every wonder of whispering
that makes this world renew
its borrowing of me
for one more day
a blade in its meadow
a miracle for whom
living does not come naturally
now, with a bit of luck
i’m wide awake and dreaming
fully now and fully then
thirsting and wroth for the skins of men
who took from me my brothers
but also quenched
by torrential creeks
made humble, bittersweet
in the miraculous need
of all things for each other
Noraa Neither Kaplan is an emerging poet living on Narragansett land in Providence, RI. Noraa draws on her experience as a trans, disabled, Jewish lesbian in her writing; she believes in the power of the written word to reveal mystic truths. A lover of DIY culture and self-publishing, most of her work is ephemeral and has been kept offline. You can hear her read some of her older poetry on bandcamp, or see what she's up to on instagram @endofmen