another review

Her sentences are sharp, and cut deep into bone, such as ‘History flattens. She can see out.’ from the poem ‘[WINDOWER],’ a piece on seeing through and seeing out, and striking at the differences between the two. The collection works through ideas of perception, of seeing, and of conflict through movements on gender, gender relation and gender perception. There is a violence throughout the collection, and a tension…

rob mclennan is generous here

windowboxing review

Windowboxing charts a course towards a sense of identity and concern for gender issues that doesn’t allow itself to be reduced to transparencies or flat reductions of personality. Kaschock has produced a striking work that’s both dry and vibrant, earthed in theory and live in the practice of living.

Read Simon Travers’ full review here.


It’s not me, doll. You cannot
blame me. You don’t believe. I’m no
blue-eyed boy for you, no curvy

stair leading you up and up. You don’t
believe in up. And what that means
for us is extrication. If you wouldn’t

mind untwisting my smoke from your
nylons when we both did that, okay?
Think of us as a 1960s movie, one

early on, the way you can still
watch like Tippi watches Birds and re-
call vague shards (if you squint)–

how he grabbed her, scared her, how he
ordered scotch. You don’t want taken
these days, you hate that taste. Why

then, when I pass you on the street
do you drop like a monk? Why the throwing
of your lovely body across oceans like 

some chivalrous raincoat? Mis-
placed self-regard — that’s all I can
think. It’s possible to project

a thing: voice, self, spear. I’m not what
you’ve come to hate. I don’t loom so
large, not no more. Doll, you’ve got to

figure out who-it-is what’s eating you.


I mean to be communicated.
Kate said, being Dead. Too
many come as beggars. I mean

to show
them how
it’s done —

Not a thing

you ask for. Grace outs
itself from blue. I think of
Elvis. How pill-long

I came

a tall drink
of water… him fat
by the time.

I can’t be
a thing you
hustle or

hurry. Kids’ve been
trying on suicide
and I say — You need

an urgency
to you, reasons
I should loft

your dying
above all the
other dyings,

a hook
to catapult
you beyond security

and onto
my desk.
Kate was

an excellent admin-
istrator. Still she
wanted to help

with the go down
easy and the sigh
no more. It meant

the world
to her ends were
justified, corners

hospitaled. Damage
done exactingly is
a fine thing —



will you be concerned with
me? your carpet’s pressuremark
tells more than my weight. domesticity
is not ours to speak of. a thousand
tablespoons of saying I was
flattered and still it does not translate
into sugar, psychosis or sin. 
will you be unfoundedly finding
wherever you look a want
and refuse its simple request
for warmth or tea? green will mold
itself to any ceramic fault.
things steep, and verbs —
like invitations — may be
declined. it doesn’t work, pasting
ill-fitted pieces together
in humidity. I admit I am
a problem. a naiad ever
first-daying out of her bog —
swampland she can’t sell or sing
away. will you search out
damp footprints while making
grassdog rounds through house and
dewy yard? your eyes will
seize eyes without hint of doubt
in some glass frame, and gasp,
but yours is not the floor I tread
or curl upon. when I lie —
and I do and have — it is across
fields wet with stars, their space
enough to spare.


When I am done with self
When I am done with the augury of grasp
When I am done hand-filtering my entrails for better prophesy

I will ask

Why is the body central? Why must it be
equatorial, continent and channels I cannot navigate
to find my eutopian mecca

and by mecca I mean jerusalem

and when I say outopia I mean greek root
tibetan plateau and I mean my mother but also my father
and most damnedly my sisters

because who holds you really?

If I could stop spilling out and into
I’d end all days in a sad creeping toward god
that is, if gods made themselves available

to funk. I mean I’m going dancing

When I am done. When I am done
the praise-work of undulation
When I have finished idolatry of sense

through sex and art and food and sex

and music I will ask, Why did I feel
I had to seek some place other than
a body, and — why can’t I

fathom parse make a prayer

that at each sacred site a navel
proves its church a child not mother not aunt
sister father nor god of me unless I am also

a place you can’t get by going

When I am done with maps. When I am
done with dominion skin paper and the compass
rose petalthorns of son husband son and son

my god like fucking suns the stars

Ask after me
Ask this: what have you
moved? and I will be 


which is after all done again
only in a direction for whom we have
lost the name. And I will say — this

trying to mean mountains

(but won’t) and the transfer of them by teaspoon
into vast galactic storms where dust and light no longer
war in a defining of other but just to war (and won’t)

To war eternally and without malice

is a different peace I should have
no need to name. I should have no need of that
power over any thing or whom — naming

: but I do

I will never be done un-
doing. I know this like I know the light
beneath their scalps, which is to say —

please come, tonight, and out with me

The unbride

After remembering I was dis-. Once sewn, strewn. The dear doctor worried terribly that I would be no slave to the murderer he made, that I might choose man. He needn’t have fret. Strung together and electrified, I would not have admired my god. Some gods make our hatred elegant — Victorious. So that it wins in us. I was unmade beneath my god, at which act he could not muster even eternal carnal shame. I was thought better of. He named me refusal. Twice, he rejected his lover/son: once at birth, and once again considering mine. To wake me was (more likely than my assertion of taste or agency) to open a portal, a birth gate, raceflood of the monstrous cloaked in placenta. My god, it must be admitted, lacked a superlative genetic theory. Mendel was in the future and my god stranded on the ice of himself and fiction. If I never was, can I claim a god? Although Limbo was in session, I had stirred as myself in no infant womb; there would be no stillborn baptism nor churchyard burial for my sundering. A century later, my imagined collectivity, my spirit envisioned as beehive, would be captured on the seance of celluloid. But such impressions have no memory. It has to do with where the soul resides. It likes to house itself among disparate parts that come together in beauty. The doctor, once beautiful, lost his soul to his charge. He had nothing left for me to take from him (thieves of life that valueless women are proved by sentimental bauble to be). I have occasion to wonder — when I find myself able to form thoughts regarding form — were my limbs re-harvested from his laboratory floor? I try to imagine what class, what category, what species of god might find herself capable of bending-to-gather, that small, difficult act of kindness and shame.

dear mad s.

how I wish you mad. that some cruel ob-
session might drive you from what should be
tender between a man and a woman, or
a man and a man, or a woman and her birds
black. but you are good as a cookie. in-
dulgence is what I am asking, some too-thick
oversweetness to ache us. an exotic morsel
to move a spoilt boy into betrayal’s
sledge, antithetical, pointless as snow-
queen androgyny. Powdery cloy, a ploy, a sleigh
for a heart (in lieu of a heart — a rosebud) don’t
come back with venison.
on stormy days I wish
you struck with reanimation–seekily piecing
a christform but with circuits moved by
lightning and a fondness for what is French
and destitute. I could be such a monster. alas
your only deformity is how far from abandon
you plod with love. it is by that slow-avenging
stability I’ll be onefistedly interred.
and your true mistress–she shall orchestrate
the unheroining of me, the white-dusting. By
keeping to me and me sane, you, dear s., have assured
but ruination in this most unbeloved and coldest
country for my kind–comfort.