Editorial Note: This is the sixth in a series of posts in which poets offer a reading of a favorite poem by a poet friend. Michelle Y. Burke is the author of the poetry chapbook Horse Loquela. She lives in Cincinnati. Natalie Shapero is a fellow in First Amendment Litigation and civil rights advocacy with Americans United for Separation of Church and State. Her collection of poems, No Object, is forthcoming from Saturnalia Books.

       1.

SPARE ME

thin displays of self-rely, cake
you’ve learned to make over

an open fire, lock

you’re picking over an open
fire, fire you’re starting

over an open fire.

The sheep ate everything
off the drying line. I had to lie

about the sweaters

so as not to call a creature
a cannibal, acrylic all,

I swear it. Why

do farm boys bring their sheep
to the edges of cliffs?

It’s the only way

to make the sheep
push back. I took a while

to get that one.

I took a while to send myself
so far there were no phones

to wait by. I fell silent.
Sheep are easiest to clone

because they are natural

followers. In wartime,
so the gardeners could enlist,

Woodrow Wilson grazed

a dozen sheep on the White
House lawn. It worked out fine.

The meek, the Earth,

assess the signs. I’m living
off crab apple scraps. You said

I was too quickly

hurt. Believe me, I have
been called worse.

      2.

A Few Notes about Natalie Shapero’s “Spare Me”
by Michelle Burke
Natalie’s fine poem walks the line between arch and intimate. It indulges in levity without being light. It’s clever and perceptive and heartbreakingly human. Note the diction of her opening: “Spare me//thin displays of self-rely.” The poem rolls its eyes then invites us in on the joke. We’re off and running: “cake/you’ve learned to make over//an open fire, lock//you’re picking over an open/fire, fire you’re starting//over an open fire.” The poem veers into wry mockery—making a fire over an open fire. Oh, please. However, this mockery is preceded with a self-conscious nostalgia for childhood innocence—making that cake over an open fire. I think of Girl Scout camp, badges, and campfire sing-alongs.

Nostalgia is the wistful longing for a lost golden age that never existed. I remember my own experience of Girl Scout camp. It was all mosquito bites, gossipy lip-gloss-slick girls, and burnt-to-a-crisp marshmallows. In many ways, “Spare Me” is a critique of nostalgia. When Natalie writes, “In wartime,/so the gardeners could enlist,//Woodrow Wilson grazed//a dozen sheep on the White/House lawn,” I think like lambs to the slaughter. Spare me, the poem says, this kind of pastoral nostalgia.

Sheep have long been the pastoral image of self-reliance. They’re also the biblical image of sacrifice. Admired for their meekness, they’re condemned for their obedience. “Why,” the poem asks, “do farm boys bring their sheep/to the edges of cliffs?” The poem gives us a beat then answers: “It’s the only way//to make the sheep/push back.” When the sheep “push back,” it’s literal and figurative. Taken at the literal level, these lines simply retell a dirty joke, but taken at the figurative level, they raise serious questions: How far can living beings be pushed before they push back? At what point does the instinct for self-preservation trump even the most docile nature?

Of this joke, Natalie writes, “I took a while//to get that one,” but I don’t take this statement at face value. Natalie’s never slow to get a joke. This is a deliberate stance of feigned innocence. When she writes, “The sheep ate everything/off the drying line,” she responds with a tongue-in-cheek desire to preserve the innocence of the sheep: “I had to lie//about the sweaters//so as not to call a creature/a cannibal, acrylic all,//I swear it.”

Natalie’s concern with innocence, with creating a space in the world for it, feels personal: “I took a while to send myself/so far there were no phones//to wait by. I fell silent.” The poem is addressed to a “you,” someone characterized as making “thin displays of self-rely.” Does this make the “you” self-reliant or not? And does sending oneself so far away that there are no phones depict another kind of self-reliance? Are the farm boys self-reliant? Are the wool-eating sheep? In all of these scenarios, the desirability of self-reliance is dubious.

By the poem’s conclusion, the command to “spare me” has traded its eye-rolling and mockery for a sincere stance. It’s a genuine cry for mercy. In the shorthand of “The meek, the Earth,” the poet’s impatience is conveyed through the elision. Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before. And then, “I’m living.” Linebreak. The momentary pause allows the line to resonate before the deflation of “off crab apple scraps.” I think of the apple, the garden, the fall. A time when humans did not need to be self-reliant. A time when we were provided for. “You said//I was too quickly//hurt. Believe me, I have/been called worse.” Is it an insult to be called too easily hurt? Aren’t we all easily hurt? Wouldn’t the world be nicer if we handled one another with care? And yet the meek do not inherit the earth. “Assess the signs.” Look around, the poem says, and prove me wrong. Please. Oh, please.

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