“Matryoshka”
It feels as if I have been three different people over the past few months
A fourth one on her tiptoes peeking up from inside
Propped up by a fifth
And I want to hold onto these girls
So many in number
But it’s tricky trying to avoid the thorns that made them jump out of their skin in the first place
Without getting pricked again
I am more woman now
I am more girl now
I have compartmentalized more than previously thought to be humanly possible in order to be both
Small cannot be big yet I exist in spite of…
Expansion is compaction now
Yes,
That is what I demand of my life,
To make room,
A place to pack away the thorns
Til I can hold them without opening old wounds
“So Where’s Home”
Anderson Avenue
I see
Telephone tree lungs
Lining all sides
Suburbia has wounded the land
The belladonna that grows now by the woodpile
Is a threat
A pretty lure laced with oath
The forest waits two chain-linked plots away
The horizon of my heart
Unchecked
But the wild onions compromise the lining of our pool
And our garden beds
And the potted basil
Inside the fence, up on the deck, pressing in the door
With every storm the maple next door leans closer
When I was little I walked barefoot on moss
Careful not to crush a whole village housed in verdance
Before the canopy was evicted
For growing too near my room
We feared the wind
But,
I think
What a way to return to the earth
Factory Lane
Things you find on the floor there:
Bobby pins
Far flung hair ties
Damp squares of paper towel
Discarded toe tape
A little bit of blood
Glitter like herpes
Hair that isn’t yours
Occasionally your will to live to scream to die
To exist
The sunset on blonde wood stretching in reaching over rooftops
Smells like hairspray
Smells like sweat
Smells like fried food next door
Smells like the marina on a hot night
Smells like:
I’ve spent so much of my life here
Friends that hate you
Hating your own body too and
Learning to love it too
Pain but
Healing
Years later
When the floor has been resanded
Still finding the same things|
Bobby pins
Hair ties
Old
But you are new
Lisman Landing
Where the bugs whir
Where the lights hum low and orange
Where the drink in my hand provides the only relief from the muggy heat pressing off the water and so many walk their dogs
in silence
Where the flagpole is bare
Where hollow hull gently bumps dock
Where the train is only a halting echo and the submarine a ghost
I am alone
Yet where the trees loom
Where their dark shadows greet the water’s edge and the last basketball has thunked and rolled away
Where carnival rides sit vacant in the salted oyster air cut with evergreen
Waiting for the people
Waiting
I am not
“Suadade”
I brought the sun back in my skin
From where color itself must originate
On her lips
Cheekbones
The inky depths of curls piled high
Leading us up and up
So close to the sky I couldn’t burn
Only exalt
A warmth my bones remember
Warmth of cobblestones
Illuminated by spray cans
A rainbow splashed
Over the geography of defiance
Beautiful chaos beyond limits
Life electric
Not for us to see except through tinted windows
The color bled through
And a gate sliding open impressed it onto my soul
Blue water, cigar smoke
Her white clothes, the air
Red beads
Green tiles
Bare feet never still
A dance with a spirit
The tempo still beats
Reverberating
In the hollow parts of me
Something sacred
Secret
That has been known forever
And she wears it in her smile
In the sidewalks
The mosaic wave
In the lagoa reflecting so bright it hurts
And we reach the highest point
Above bird
Above cloud
Above fear
Near
To something greater
Inexplicable
I take the sun into my skin
And it makes me want to wear color again
“Trauma Fries”
The night before
Safe in Connecticut
Cozy
The tree is decorated
On the couch watching standup in Christmas pajamas
They were a little soggy on the edges from condensation
An hour after impact
Shaking in the hospital cafe
Splinted
Susanna lost her glasses
Sitting silent in a stranger’s hoodie
They were fresh and hot and I let them burn the roof of my mouth willingly
Melt the memory of ice away
Seven hours out
A hotel somewhere in New Jersey
Bruised
Thinking of mile marker 52
Surrounded by business people in clothes the Uber driver almost wouldn’t give us time to buy
They were crispy and seasoned with a trio of dips
The entire salt shaker spills onto Susanna’s food
And we are at least alive to gripe about it
Emma Gerstein is a senior theatre major with a minor in dance. She is an expert at sprinting in go-go boots and can often be found arguing with ghosts in the Alumnae Museum.
Pitch - A Journal of Arts and Literature