Posts for June 1, 2022 (page 10)

i want to go back to march, 
where my eyes were green 
and my mind not so keen.
where the arch 
in my back pointed out fierce —

stallion in the black night piercing 
through the woods, i am now 
a silent knight with a shining sword, bow
to me — beg mercilessly for my hearings,
spring long gone, you have no flowers —

nor i a child, the weight of my dour 
crown is my only babe, she keeps me warm —
a blanket in the harsh cold from where i was born,
the frost covers my silk brown 
hair, and my skin is pale winter.

perish in the lake of ice, i emerge victor. 
now a dragon with wings of wind,
breath of wrath — let me sing you a refined song,
let me burn you bitter
to dust and ash, as i have done to myself.

The mailman grins as he hands over the package.
I wonder if he is amused by my children’s lack of clothes,
or the wilted clovers eased through my braid.  

The seed catalogues boast “heirloom”,
but they all lack what I crave.
Fished from between freezer-burnt hogs’ feet and greens,
shimmery pantyhose resting inside a bag, crumpled by use.
Crooked fingers eased the knot
and pinky-nail sized orbs fell into my hands.
Tiny glacial prizes, speckled red.  

After she died, I grasped for her bible
searching for an answer.
I still have it,
pages worn thin by hands not mine.
The comforts I sought weren’t there
but tucked deep in the freezer,
long since lost.  

Her hands didn’t grace this seed
and her voice won’t pray over the dirt.
But I clutch the bag tight against my breast,
from the hands of some other mountain beauty,
packaged carefully and addressed to me.
I’ll look to the moon and hope the signs are right,
I have high hopes for these little, red-specked beans.    

i wrote this one

uncut grass houses the little white blossoms
we used to tie together into chains
we trace our sketches in the sandy dirt
of a vacant baseball field
dusty sacks slap cornhole boards
the ping of a baseball echoes off it’s tee
neighborhood wind chimes are blown into a distant twinkle

a kentucky summer, so characteristic of the appalachian livin’ i’m trying to move the world against

now, the weeds unfurl onto my unshaved legs
dirt coats the kicked over beer bottle next to my converse,
a dirty maroon to match my dyed hair
smoke curls out from between my fingers

how far away i am from that little girl
who was trapped in the fences of suffocating rules

is the illusion of simpler times enough to justify blatant oppression?

There once was a sitcom starring Mickey Rooney
That always had a self-contained opening comic scene,
Followed by a Green Giant commercial.

The giant was animated,
But not like the jolly cartoon character in later commercials.
This giant was a scary figure with a booming voice
Who stomped through the fields of vegetables.

I was probably five or six,
And I would run to my room,
Only to return to watch the show After the commercial ended.

It’s here, around us, within us, consuming us,
a tsunami of needless, preventable tragedy.

We offer thoughts and prayers, ritualized comforts,
to those who grieve, to the children who experience

terror in the classroom, to the shoppers, commuters,
celebrants, who fall to the gun. We deplore wanton

acts but withhold action, heed the drone of social
media and breaking news, let the outrage slip

from our communal conscience —
until the next assault weapon thunders.  

My god, my body has
changed as if my old place of business
has been shuttered.
Or like Look, the best snow man ever,
reduced to a puddle,
a rotten carrot, two buttons,
a stocking cap gone out of fashion.
Thank you, Lord, for my body,
how it resembles a car that resembles
a coffin with wheels,
dented but not yet totaled.
My body a drowned treasure chest
picked clean by pirates. Thank you,
Gravity, for keeping me grounded,
but just once I want to be a helium balloon.
To be naked with no shame
no matter how many people point.
There’s an American Association for Nude Recreation
but I’m not a joiner. I don’t have any friends
that would be into skinny dipping
and maybe that’s what’s missing.  

But I won’t go skinny dipping alone.
I’ll learn to swim in the body I have.
I’ll be a stream that’s made peace with the ocean.
I promise I was young once, but too self-conscious
to dance. I should have danced, music or no music.
Now I’m the lake I dog-paddle in.
Now my body is a doorway into a room on fire.
Now my body is a framed painting that my children colored over.
Sometimes I lie in my bed and dream that my body is new.
Sometimes I lie in my bed and dream of never waking.
Sometimes I write aubades that want to be gunshots.
Sometimes I think there should be more of me.
I want to sing into Van Gogh’s severed ear
and let him paint me nude and blue,
my face unfinished, my body a temporary address
in a town you never hear about except
when fugitive criminals get tracked down there.
Someone in every group of skinny dippers thinks
it’s funny to hide other people’s clothes.
Someone always takes pictures.
The cops always arrive but never join in.

Everything I Owned

Rumpled hair, plain face,
blue jeans wrinkled at the knees,
a white paper bag and rainbow heart,
crisp and unstained.

I packed it carefully
so it wouldn’t tear,
guarded it from sharp corners
and coffee cup smears.

Brisk steps and roller-cases
catching flights to bright places,
while my fingers cramped
from paper handles that cut at my hands.

Even knowing the whole story,
I was out of place,
kissing the last face of who I loved.
This ticket across the plains,

back to my Ohio River Valley,
her hills, and filling my cup
with brown river water
to swallow all of my dreams.

Even knowing, I still wondered
how this paper bag became
the guardian of everything I owned,
and how suddenly it had come to this.

Alissa Sammarco
June 1, 2022

I watch my children in the water
splashing and flipping, pushing each other 
to try new tricks.

Soaking in their laughs and conversations.
 
I remember spending summer days
submerged the same way without a care
beyond my next popsicle.

In a place where the world’s worries don’t
exist yet.

I’m glad they can build these memories on
their way into adulthood where trouble
waits to pounce on souls not yet weary.

I’m glad I can be present while they do.

Not all families hold this privilege.

I. He always tucks two
in the black acrylic ankle
sock on his right leg. 

II. Spit sizzles from his
lips as he presses
smouldering ash
against his tongue. 

III. She use her index
finger to trace the perfect
circle embeded on her left
wrist every time she imagines
leaving. 

IV. Torn into two pieces
bobbing in his warm beer. 

V. She feels the strike of
the match beneath her breast.