Nancy Boutilier Quotes & Sayings

St. Francis knew the bear
to be born formless
licked into shape
by its mother.

So too
were pagans licked
into shape
by religion.

Bear with me
my love
what a conversion
it has been

To be
licked
into shape
by you. — Nancy Boutilier

Sapphic Chords

On what marble stones would you scratch your love today?
Spray it on brick walls, rap it in pool halls,
hang it on the clothes line with you lingerie?
Oh, Sappho!

Would you swing a softball bat, wear lipstick, ride a Harley?
What novels would you pen, what political party?
Is that really tenderness in your final line, or do words hang for what you
couldn't say?

What remnants you left behind, too little but enough
for us to know the luxury of your lust.
Your heat, your wisdom, your passion - all left in fragmented trust.
Oh, Sappho! — Nancy Boutilier

I Imagine Them

turning some dog-eared page
tapping out a drum beat on the dash
sorting the laundry
digging for a matching sock
buried in deep pockets
breaking an egg on the side of a bowl
fingering guitar strings

Where are they now?

tenderly holding a pen to paper
furiously moving through air
in concert
with your conversation
resting assuredly on the back
of a chair

oh to be the steering wheel
or the spoon
to have your palms
pressed solidly upon me
the full fan of your fingers
curved to the slope
of my shoulders
oh to be warmed
to be wrapped
in hope
to be healed
by the laying on
of your hands — Nancy Boutilier

The Price of a Muse

I write for
resurrection

to see bodies reassemble
and rise

I've tried to write my dog
off of the pavement

my first girlfriend back
into my arms

a love into more everlasting
than it was

my own soul
into being.

I know now the price
of a muse.

My writing
has not saved me.

It won't
save you.

But let me try
to raise us up. — Nancy Boutilier

On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone

It must have been
the eighth day.

A day the scribes and Pharisees conveniently
left out.

Adam was either inspecting goats
or naming the birds

when something pinched
my side.

I had to stop pruning the tree of knowledge
to catch my breath.

God had taken a long weekend.

At first I thought the solitude of gardening
was going to my head.

Was it loneliness?
An omen? A vision?

For a moment I thought I would
ascend.

Then I realized it was just a rib
missing.

How you found your way in
along the banks of the third river

I will never know
but I still shiver to recall

how perfectly your fingers
fell into place

along the ridges
of my ribcage.

Go ahead, Love,
take every last bone.

Make of me
what you will. — Nancy Boutilier

Continental Drift

you have moved through
like an ice flow-
steady slow substantial

tumble of glacial tongue
sweeping through
valleys reshaped

you arrived on your own epic time
patient and thorough
meltwater firn crevasse and all

lifting rocks on shifting plates
smoothing edges
and moving the very axes of my teeth

you soothed over rifts and fault lines
leaving me
newly minted

peaked and ridged
steep and crested
sloped and spurred

Hillsides lush
and summits glistening
I rush to a new dawn

but not without raw traces
of your tender era
scratched warmly on my every acre — Nancy Boutilier

Harvest

Do not let a woman with a sexy rump deceive you
with wheedling and coaxing words; she is after your barn.
-Hesiod

Shall we gather the sunset
pluck what is ripe
harness the cicada's song?
Even if this isn't the season
of new love
let us remember the buds
and reap what we can.
No crop is too small.
No harvest too lean.
The grain will yield.
So scatter and slash
call in the cows
and let us milk them all dry.
Plow as you will.
Bulldoze away.
Why not make every season
our season
each day
our day
to till and tease
to clear and seed
to plant and replant
as we please.
Come
my sweet smell of hay
do not be deceived
by Hesiod.
He says that I am
after your barn.
I want the whole
fucking farm! — Nancy Boutilier

Dressed to Live

Today is my newest garment.

Let me put it on
with ceremony.
Let me step into the day
as if to bathe in the passing hours.
Let me tuck in the loose ends
with precision.

Today is my newest garment.

Let me wear it as if it holds
my head high,
as if it can carry me
on its shoulders,
as if it will protect me
from the howl.

Today is my newest garment.

Let me fill my pockets.
Let them bulge with riches:
light on the wide sidewalk,
kind words from a stranger,
things perched, newly born,
carefully placed, aging gracefully.

Today is my newest garment.

At night
let me disrobe
grateful and whole,
knowing that
tomorrow
I will dress again. — Nancy Boutilier