Sara Tracey

Anna Dreams of Heat and Light

  1940                                     
Just yesterday, I found a rabbit’s
spine in the garden. I slipped
each vertebra in my apron pocket.
 
All day, they hummed along
my hip until, at dusk, I reached in
and pulled out a string of pearls.
 
Why do you think I am lying?
Because I gave away the only thing
I had worth keeping? So be it.
 
Take this, too: once, my father
touched my cheek and told me
I looked just the same
 
as my mother when she
was a girl. I know this is true
because I dream of gravity,
 
a gentle kiss. I wake with a start,
body like a rubber band
let loose. Snap. And something
 
I almost had is gone. Snap.
And my heart trips forward, clumsy
as a kid. She is gypsy
 
dark, fingernails rimmed with black
soil. Pebbles in her mouth. A gift.
She made the first rabbit. I found its remains.           

The Ontology of Secrets

A path, a riddle, a jewel, an oath—anything can be a secret so long as it is                                     
kept intentionally hidden, set apart in the mind of its keeper as requiring                                     
concealment.                                     
–Sissela Bok, Secrets: On the Ethics of Concealment and Revelation                                     

I. A Path
 
near the lake. Seventeen
miles. Ice so thick
they say you can drive
on top of it. The Buick
sits idle, puffs of exhaust
tangible as cotton candy.
Your life is a series
of idling engines, men
waiting for someone
to say, Let’s go. You picture
the inside of a vault,
paper money stacked
in neat piles along the walls,
and when the men go
inside, the bills turn
to knee-high grass, dried
by the season, tossing
back and forth in the wind
that crossed the lake
from Canada. You wish this
were true. Instead, the men
take the bills from the vault
and your man brings some
back to you, says, Take this,
buy the baby something nice,
and you buy her a dress,
palest yellow; a new toy,
clean and soft. You take
the bills to the cellar, create
your own vault with old
bricks, an empty drum
where your father used to
keep his homemade wine.
 
II. A riddle
 
is like a recipe. Break
the bread into chunks.
Drizzle oil over the bread.
Lick your fingers.
 
III. A jewel
 
looks legitimate,
and no one is brash
enough to ask questions.
Under your skirt,
the softest part of you
is bruised. Your very
body, the fat and the chaff.
Private is the mouth
that doesn’t eat.
It glistens and glows.
Girl, you’ll be a wife
soon enough.
 
IV. An oath
 
makes you his wife.
He weds you with
the back of his hand,
with his belt. Don’t cry.
Count the bills in the cellar,
go to work. When you 
return, watch the child
fast asleep. Your body began
when she did. Like
a vault you kept her
and will keep her.
Your mouth is the vault
now. You speak so
little the child
can’t recognize
your voice when
you call her back
from the gulley. She’s
gone far enough; she’s
shouting into the ravine.

Biagio Brings Work Home

1947                                     
In the moment after his fist,
silence. Her jaw absorbs
 
all sound. Even the glass
breaking behind her
 
stills. The pain is longer
than a homily. Bodies
 
are strong enough to withstand
so much—she thinks
 
it would be better if
her teeth could shatter
 
like the glass, but no. Flesh
swallows impact like the lake
 
takes a body bound by bricks
and hides it within itself. The body
 
becomes stronger. The mind
inside learns not to react.

Transcription: Biagio Tells the Story of Red Rider

                                      1947                                    
Now once upon a time there was a little girl named Little Red Riding Hood. She was the state’s
champ jitterbug. She was jitterbugging on down to the forest, you know why? Because her mother
told her to take these two bottles of whiskey over to her grandmother’s because she was thirsty. So
Little Red Riding Hood was jitterbuggin’ on down the forest lane, and she run into one of them slick
slickers, you know, one of them guys from the town in one of them jitterbug suits. He was the Big
Bad Wolf. He had a zoot suit, a reet pleat, a big seat, and a stuffed cuff. So he stopped Little Red
Riding Hood, and he said, “Hey babe, where you going?” and Little Red Riding Hood said, “Step
aside big boy,” said “I’m on my way to my grandmother’s.” And uh, the wolf says, “Well what for?”
“My old mammy’s thirsty. I got a bottle of gin here and a bottle of liquor I gotta take to my
grandmother’s.” So the wolf said, “What you taking all that good stuff down to your old bag’s? Let’s
you and I drink enough to cut a rug right here.” So Little Red Riding Hood said okay, so they cut up
a rug. And what do you think happened?

After Months Without Trouble, Anna Grows Suspicious

                                      1946                                    
Someone left a bullet on the bathroom sink.
Outside, an engine exhales. Biagio, just home
from work, snaps open a Zippo
with two fingers and a thumb.
His friends gather at the fender
of the old Buick, pass a pack
of Camels from one hand to the next.
The radio announces bad weather—lake effect--
and on cue, snow begins to settle
on the sidewalk. The men flick their smokes
into the yard and drive away.
Anna puts the bullet in her pocket.
Across town, someone is digging a grave.



--
Sara Tracey is the author of Some Kind of Shelter (Misty Publication, 2013) and the chapbook Flood Year (dancing girl press, 2009). A local of northeast Ohio, Sara has studied at the University of Akron, the NEOMFA, and the University of Illinois at Chicago.