Small Murders by Carrie McGath

New Issues Press, 2006

Because of DNA

DNA everywhere. Hair follicles, eyelashes, hidden hot pink toenails, scraped knees, bruised fingers. Carrie McGath’s debut collection, Small Murders, looks for evidence with a trained, meticulous, inexhaustible eye. From indentations in beds to material inside a glove box, from the bent back of an assiduous artist to the wooden closet of a boudoir, McGath seeks out the tiny parts, the small murders, of the mind, the heart, the psyche, in order to detect the who, why, and wherewithal of love.

Small Murders opens with a tour through a small antique shop, where the perspicacious narrator frets over a series of fragmented doll parts. These “exact dismemberments” hang above the narrator, on display: “brown hair, red hair, dishwater blonde hair,/feet, arms, legs, and heads with eyes,/eyes with eyelids that shuttered when touched.” Despite the baleful atmosphere of this macabre backroom of the antique shop, the narrator sticks around, surveying, making notes of “the gunshot doll”, the “armless teddy bear”, and “two jaundiced plastic arms”, and returns a week later to purchase the small box that contains more parts: “two baby doll teeth,/a small nursing bottle,/a tiny dustpan in 1950s blue” (7). McGath specializes in broken, discarded left behinds, attending to these objects as nurse, scientist, surgeon, and lover.

She recalls the dashboard Virgin in Henry’s taxi, the woeful eyes of Hans Bellmar’s dolls, and a pomegranate rotting in an abandoned refrigerator with tenacious clarity. Later, she returns to the slaughter, more clearly, with “So Nice to See You”, “Rape Dreams”, “Nights Marred Like Crickets in Metal Fan Blades”, and “Murder Girl”. In poems like “You Are a Rifle in My Closet”, “Daylight Savings”, and “My Libido”, the violence is less bloody, yet the narrators suffocate under an intense need to love intensely. In “A Good Nympho Can Get a Lot of Guys Killed”, she writes: “And didn’t I call you a jackass/for not taking the love I gave you seriously?/And then I walked away wanting to cry but seeing the cool/absurdity of crying, so I didn’t” (9).

By the end of the book, I’m convinced this narrator (these narrators?) is “the loneliest girl in the time zone” (1, is “an ordinary object. A compact” (14), is the tremble, the “eerie paths”, the “scouring pads”, the “round and red as plums” nipples, and more and more and more. By the end of the book, I’m just as convinced the fertility of McGath’s imagination becomes overpowering, overdone, and indeterminate. Where restraint is needed, the hand is heavy.

And yet, this is a mesmerist’s narrative hope: to create a lyric fecundate, to unrestrain. Carrie McGath has accomplished this feat. Read it and watch your mind follow the beautiful tangle of dots.

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