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The Meter Reader: In Chelsea Dingman's听罢丑补飞听"intimacy is a wound and a salve at once"

Amie Whittemore

搁别惫颈别飞别诲:听罢丑补飞听by Chelsea Dingman (University of Georgia Press, 2017).

The opening line of Chelsea Dingman鈥檚 debut collection,听罢丑补飞,听is 鈥渨hat we grieve is,鈥� and from this stark shore, we enter grief鈥檚 waters and snow, its enigmatic skies, and complicated footprints that vanish when we try to see them clearly (鈥淗unting, Circa 1985鈥�). Later in the poem Dingman writes 鈥渓ike the camera, our eyes fail / to see what falls outside / the frame,鈥� instructing us, gently, in how to read听Thaw: while it seems to draw from losses in Dingman鈥檚 life鈥攈er father鈥檚 death, for instance, is a central concern, as are the complexities of motherhood, daughterhood, and womanhood鈥攖hese poems are far from confessional.听Thaw鈥檚 waters run both clear and murky. As she writes in 鈥淟ittle Hell,鈥� 鈥淚 escaped / the snow, not its secrets鈥� and these secrets are what drown Dingman鈥檚 speakers as well as what gives them hope: intimacy, which is at the center of every secret, is a wound and a salve at once.

Snow and sky are two of the most prominent words, and arguably characters, in听罢丑补飞.听In the first section, 鈥渟now鈥� appears twenty-five times and 鈥渟ky鈥� twenty-seven¹; notably, the word 鈥渢haw鈥� only appears once in each section (I鈥檒l circle back to that). Petals, pines, fire, wind, water, rain, and song also haunt Dingman鈥檚 poems and through these repetitions Dingman constructs a landscape of loss鈥攊f our loved ones are gone or have betrayed us, what is left? Water. Rain. Sky. Snow. Over and over, their unrelenting presence a marker for all that is absent. In 鈥淪irens,鈥� for instance, the speaker invites us to 鈥渟ay someone will come, but no / one comes鈥� and she 鈥渉ad /a mother then. I held the wind / in my throat like a song,鈥� beneath the 鈥渃oal- // black sky, blue-lit by morning / that arrives too late.鈥� The speaker鈥檚 mother has a wound that looks like a 鈥渟tarved town / in the distance.鈥� In recounting her past the speaker beautifully renders danger: though the wind sings in her mouth, her mother is removed, a distant town herself. The poem ends,

If I could unzip cold

skin, maybe I鈥檇 know

how to stop reaching

听

for snow, dark blue

mountains haloed by stars.

Dingman suggests here that snow, which melts when we touch it, is a stand-in for every loss鈥攏o matter how we reach for the dead and gone, we can鈥檛 get them back. It can even feel that our very longing for them is what makes them disappear.

In the second section, 鈥渟ky鈥� and 鈥渟now鈥� continue to dominate though 鈥渟ky鈥� increases in usage (up to thirty-four) while 鈥渟now鈥� diminishes slightly to twenty-one uses. These shifts, while seemingly minimal are significant, indicating a shift in the balance of grief and peace. In 鈥済irl, unfinished,鈥� Dingman鈥檚 speaker revisits the days after her father鈥檚 death, in which a family friend arrives鈥攖he man who will become her stepfather. Here, silence is a harrowing presence, appearing in four iterations: 鈥渟ilence / & grief,鈥� 鈥渟ilence / like a wound,鈥澨� 鈥渟ilence / & snow,鈥� and 鈥渟ilence // all around鈥攈ungry sky.鈥� By substituting 鈥渟now鈥� in for 鈥済rief鈥� Dingman explicitly equates the two, reinforcing this equation through the use of ampersands. 鈥淪ky,鈥� however, while syntactically joined with silence, is not linked with the听听to it鈥攊ndeed white space, a sense of space itself (鈥渁ll around鈥�) and an em dash separate them. The sky is insatiable, offering so much鈥攆alling stars, crows, rain, and yes, snow鈥攚hile receiving so little. In this desirous capacity, it can hold us, even when it is pierced or broken, in a way snow never can. Dingman posits a faint, shimmering near-to-hope in this situating of the sky. In 鈥淣octurne,鈥� for instance, the speaker notes, twice, 鈥淚 can鈥檛 see the whole sky / at once鈥� and this inability to contain the sky wholly, this surrender to being contained by its mystery (鈥渉ow bright / the bodies it holds,鈥� the poem ends) is at least a truce of some sort: between the present and past, between the griefs that came before and those that await.

But听why is it this way, Dingman鈥檚 speaker wants to know; why is every truce a shaky one? As the collection unfolds, more unanswered questions enter her poems. Snow melts, water evaporates, and pines shed their needles: only questions remain and Dingman鈥檚 do not pull any punches. The first one appears in 鈥淭estimony of Hinges,鈥� which is a direct address to the speaker鈥檚 stepfather: 鈥淚f not me, //who else do you skin?鈥� Later in 鈥淗iraeth,鈥� she asks, 鈥渨hy have you shown me / ragged ridges, a river, / if they weren鈥檛 mine to keep?鈥澨�Thaw鈥檚 questions ache and reverberate like 鈥渞ain drilling the roof like nails into planks鈥� (鈥淓legy for My Child鈥�). And who exactly do these questions鈥攁nd these poems鈥攁ddress? The collection relies heavily on direct address but only occasionally is the 鈥榶ou鈥� made explicitly clear: sometimes Dingman鈥檚 speakers address a dead brother and dead father, a romantic partner(s?), a stepfather, a child, God; sometimes the poems seem to address a past version of the speaker as in 鈥済irl, unfinished;鈥� and at other times, the 鈥測ou鈥� is too enigmatic to limn鈥攖he speaker herself? Whoever鈥檚 listening? Anyone seeking the gossipy shadows traumas can cast will be disappointed in听Thaw; these poems, like the sky, are choosy about what they鈥檒l let fall from their mysterious hands.

What minimal sense of resolution the book offers can be found in its two uses the title word. Dingman is clearly drawing on all the definitions of 鈥�,鈥� but I find myself drawn to the second one: 鈥渢o become free of the effect of cold.鈥� These poems are shrouded in coldness, with only glimpses of warmth. 鈥淚mmortality,鈥� a brief lyric, ends 鈥渨eeping in the thaw,鈥� and in 鈥淟ive Oaks,鈥� one of the few 鈥渨arm鈥� poems set in Dingman鈥檚 current home of Florida, she writes

I should know

听

paradise, but all I see, sometimes,

are the forests I knew before, covered in snow听

听

as we waited for the thaw.

Thus, Dingman offers to us the possibility of thawing: to free ourselves of our ghosts, we can do little more than wait. And yes, we might weep as we wait. We might become mothers, struggle at being daughters, we might long to be other than ourselves鈥攖hese internal battles all take place beneath the sky, amid the snow and rain: like weather, they will pass. And us? We remain, for now, on earth, asking our questions while we can.

¹In my count I included compound words featuring either snow or sky, along with possessive and plural forms. My cats frequently interrupted my tallying, so I do not claim this to be flawless addition.