Rachel Reynolds
I AM NOT A KNOWABLE THING
after Joan Didion on Georgia O’Keeffe
but bottles tossed into the air and shot by Claudia.
no star memorialized in watercolor but still
a disappearance on the horizon, a slip from fingers
after being drained and dropped into a sack,
slung over a shoulder at dusk.
it is hardness I seek, the certain translucence
of glass so I remember what it is
to be sand. not unlovable but its
opposite: wholeness through opening,
the rough rip that says I am.
so I am seeking bullets,
I am looking to explode against the sky, refract
that last light of day as I tumble toward dirt, into
the earth that made me without judgment, back to her
wish that I become whatever it is I think I am.
after Joan Didion on Georgia O’Keeffe
but bottles tossed into the air and shot by Claudia.
no star memorialized in watercolor but still
a disappearance on the horizon, a slip from fingers
after being drained and dropped into a sack,
slung over a shoulder at dusk.
it is hardness I seek, the certain translucence
of glass so I remember what it is
to be sand. not unlovable but its
opposite: wholeness through opening,
the rough rip that says I am.
so I am seeking bullets,
I am looking to explode against the sky, refract
that last light of day as I tumble toward dirt, into
the earth that made me without judgment, back to her
wish that I become whatever it is I think I am.
WE ARE ON VACATION BUT THE BIRDS + OUR DEAD GRANDMOTHER KEEP SPEAKING TO HIM
the kitchen shears are still
in the drawer, tucked among spoons
and forks, the odd chopstick and
chipped quarter cup. my throat
catches at the sight, body
freezes, dishtowel in hand.
alone in this small room, i feel the quiet all
around. the lake is glacial, the loons
lonely this evening, long gaps
between their calls. upstairs
my mother's mattress is stuffed
with knives i secreted by the fistful
as she lured my brother to the porch,
offered him the sunset. the shears
stare up at me, serrated and unafraid.
i wonder what else i've failed to notice.
the kitchen shears are still
in the drawer, tucked among spoons
and forks, the odd chopstick and
chipped quarter cup. my throat
catches at the sight, body
freezes, dishtowel in hand.
alone in this small room, i feel the quiet all
around. the lake is glacial, the loons
lonely this evening, long gaps
between their calls. upstairs
my mother's mattress is stuffed
with knives i secreted by the fistful
as she lured my brother to the porch,
offered him the sunset. the shears
stare up at me, serrated and unafraid.
i wonder what else i've failed to notice.
ONE WAY OF LOOKING AT MY MOTHER
i want you to hear the quiet
of this house perched on the hill,
old and barn red and leaning.
hear the trees, the thin rustle
of dead leaves left on branches.
only the straggler birds remain,
only their occasional call.
can you see my mother?
she has her back to us, rust-colored
coat pulled tight around. her legs
are long, her throat slim, her eyes
glance over shoulder, squint
for the road. no firetruck yet.
she turns back.
she does not think
much has changed since she first saw
smoke slip from the wall
around the chimney.
hands to the plaster confirmed too much
heat so she listened up the stairs:
silence. in the kitchen,
she picked up the phone, dialed for help,
then quietly put on her shoes,
pulled a jacket from the hook,
went out the back door to wait.
years later, she explained
I was a difficult baby. it was hard
to get me to sleep.
i want you to hear the quiet
of this house perched on the hill,
old and barn red and leaning.
hear the trees, the thin rustle
of dead leaves left on branches.
only the straggler birds remain,
only their occasional call.
can you see my mother?
she has her back to us, rust-colored
coat pulled tight around. her legs
are long, her throat slim, her eyes
glance over shoulder, squint
for the road. no firetruck yet.
she turns back.
she does not think
much has changed since she first saw
smoke slip from the wall
around the chimney.
hands to the plaster confirmed too much
heat so she listened up the stairs:
silence. in the kitchen,
she picked up the phone, dialed for help,
then quietly put on her shoes,
pulled a jacket from the hook,
went out the back door to wait.
years later, she explained
I was a difficult baby. it was hard
to get me to sleep.
--
Rachel Fiske Reynolds teaches middle school. They are a Best of the Net nominee and their work has appeared with Red Rock Review, Liminalities, Faultline, Duende, the Nervous Breakdown, VICE, and more.
Rachel Fiske Reynolds teaches middle school. They are a Best of the Net nominee and their work has appeared with Red Rock Review, Liminalities, Faultline, Duende, the Nervous Breakdown, VICE, and more.