Surrender 12.23.13

The Whip Master’s Assistant

Waiting outside

the big top for the promised tornado:

the sky is pregnant with creams, blues

fresh as veins on the back of hands,

layers of grey, countless and exact.

Lightning flares,

electric pink at the core, spills

into nearby clouds- roses bloom and close

with terrific speed; static, flared fully open,

spectacular for only an instant, then gone,

a retinal imprint.

The sound- sharp and deep,

a gong splitting in two- is barely delayed.

Very like the sonic boom of the bullwhip

she is learning to stand in front of, a stage act

where she holds plastic roses and newspaper

at arms length for decapitation or shredding.

She still blinks at the whip, but is steady,

eager even, in the face of the storm,

finds it easier to trust ruthless indifference

than human error.

But the pleasant resignation, the thrill of fear

relaxing into fate: familiar.

Up 12.2.13

Waking Early, Utila

On the island there are mornings

when the outline of laundry on the porch,

shadows of banana trees,

flare jet against a sky banked

with flaming coals.

The next time you open

your eyes, moments later,

it has gentled, rose gold.

Then steel and white silver,

and if you stare long enough

the ocean appears,

a line of blue iron.

Gather, 11.18.13

Gathering Fish, El Tunco

A shirtless man throws a net, bright green,

into the murky shallows at the mangroves’ edge.

He wades in chest deep & hauls the lines, hand over hand-

several coin-bright fish, snagged.

On shore, the man plucks them flipping from the tangle,

tosses them into a plastic bucket.

From a distance I watch the wet blinks of silver,

their brief, furious writhing,

wonder:

what is it like, to drown in air?

Thick as tar pits & oil, or thin & harsh

like desert air, or the acrid grit of smoke, car fumes.

Or just the feel of reaching

in the dark for what is not there.

The fisherman, net picked clean, casts again.

Two: 10.21.13

Twice

Twice in my life

I have been in shock

and carried myself home.

The first after a collision

on a back road in Guatemala—

the mirror in the bathroom

held the familiar blue of tiles,

my eyes, my shirt; the stain

dried brown over my left breast;

the blood on my arms

not

my own.

The second came

after she told me

what he did

to the red-haired girl.

We sat on the bed cross-legged, empty

tea mugs bracing open

the arrowhead space

between our thighs and calves.

“There's something I need

to tell you,” she grabbed my hand,

pressed it to her sternum—

our heartbeats, suddenly wild, collided

at the crux of my elbow,

“it's about your ex.”

I believed her

account, passed down

from the girl who lived

it

only months before.

the blood

not

my own.

*This piece has previously appeared in Issue 2 of Broad! Magazine

Fences: 10/7/13

What You Know About Fences

You know, because you grew up on a farm, to always close the gate behind you. You know the fence wants new nails, new planks, new wire because it is the only thing between animals and the road. You know, now matter what materials or dimensions you use, that some horse or mule will put its hoof through the fence. You know how to joke about this, exactly how much exasperation goes into the remark “they’ll always find a way to get themselves hurt.”

You know if you see a horse caught in a fence how to walk calmly to them, hope it is not one of the stupid or mean animals. You know to keep wirecutters in your back pocket. You know how rarely they can be saved from damage to their legs.

You know because you have spent a lifetime perching on fences (pipe fences, wooden fences, stone fences) that it is best to sit next to a post, so you have something to lean against while you watch the fields and sky.

You know because gates swing and guards smile pleasantly that your white skin melts fences.

You know because you have been scolded that you cannot climb fences in a dress. You know because you did not believe the scolding that you can.

You know because of tracks in the snow that deer will leap any fence you build.

You know because you hear about it that people are shot or shelled for climbing fences. But only some fences. Only some people.

You know enough to hate barbed wire, razor wire- fencing valued only for its sharpness.

You know because a Yellowstone park ranger once told you that wolves dig under fences, escape the park and are killed by ranchers. Fences must be sunk into the ground like roots.

You know which of the horses can open gates with their strong acrobat lips.

You know which way they will run down the road if they escape, where best to head them off.

You know to always close and lock the gate behind you.