The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Ashley Goedker
I push your mud into the crevice of my boot, Duluth. I follow your veins to Chester Creek, geocache my secrets under thimbleberries, forget-me-not banks, Ninth Street rain-water run of rocks, Duluth, you’ve swallowed our memories into your trees at Fourteenth and Seventh where I first learned to walk. Where I first learned to listen to your bluesed banjo and washboard notes that stirred slumbered dust from Brewhouse floors where I first learned to dance. Where I first preserved every note that lead to every coffee cup I drained when I first woke to you, Duluth. Where I swore none could compare to your Woodland shadows. Where I apologized first, when I told you the UP pulled, swore I’d return before the next blue moon, offered lavender satchels to the Witch Tree to ensure my Kitchi Gummi travels would guide me back to you, Duluth. It’s been two years, three months since we’ve danced. I clutch your map, hold your hand, Duluth. I inhale your steamed Superior, cobble-stone street. I wanna pin your wind in my hair, let my head rise and fall on your Rose-Garden belly, my Zenith City of the Unsalted Seas. You were my first laugh, first love, Duluth. When I lend my lips to your Vermilion cheek, you pour dandelion, honey and pine into my hollow tongue. I wanna wrap my mitten ’round your Hillside knee and patch every notch in your broken streets, Duluth. I navigate my return through your canal, chart your bridges on my hands, collect sea glass to protect you from harbored ruin, Duluth. Duluth, at Park Point we meet. your sand pleads at my feet, ’cause you won’t let me leave this time. And I want you to swallow my body, bury the cartography of us. Duluth, I read your Skyline like my favorite book, I repeat every word in my sleep. Triptych
I.
Fuckin eh, I want the woman back who isn’t scared of the fucking pizza delivery guy on New Year’s day. I’m sorry to say, but I want my coconut ring back, too. The one that I whittled into almost fitting my right, ring finger. I’m sorry to say, but they picked the wrong damn woman. I’m the woman who was born without warning. On a Friday night I shored like a tsunami in the middle of my brother’s first birthday. And I’m sorry to say I’m a fucking fish who knows her flip-turns and fin-kicks. So I guess they picked the right woman. I’m the woman with seven brothers who punched me as practice for lunch. I was born to scream for food, to wrestle fresh air— and that’s why I’d let them pick me again and again. Jesus, I thought of my sister first, giving birth. Cause I’ve got practice out of water, in the middle of the ocean, and I swear that’s how I breathed my nephew’s first breath.
II.
Fuck Fiji. Fuck the man who broke into my hostel and tried to fuck me while I was asleep. I didn’t see his face, but I can testify how I woke with him spilled over me, how he molded me into mattress, and seemed to right his thighs so they’d yoke—that’s right when I swore I couldn’t tell his breath from mine. Dark enough I’d of believed he was just that heavy, South Pacific air that crawled over me. Dark enough I’d convinced myself he was just a fucking nightmare. But I know I woke in the morning, underwear ripped from my hips, and every time I looked in the mirror I saw him, a blotch the size of a plum, a swollen neck, I swear. And I can testify how everyone laughed at me. How I bit my tongue till it bled, and swallowed my breakfast bones whole alone.
This is how I know his skin tastes like cumin, like marrow, like salt.
III.
For all I knew I was barefoot and bare-breasted in the nightfall of a Minnesota winter. It must’ve been the way the cold bloomed my toes from the hostel floor. Or it must’ve been how I yanked my dress over my knees, real quick when it tricked me. Turns out it was just some end of June, black-magic hex. And man I’d be damned if Mana Island’s heat wasn’t hostile, too. Cause fuck the man with the messenger bag who cornered me in the hostel bathroom that day. Fuck him and the horse he rode in on. I honestly wanted to believe him when he told me he was there to check the lights. But this is my testimony: that when he locked the hostel door, I lost feeling in my hands and throat. Man, I’m not sure when I took my next breath, but my chest must’ve filled somewhere between when he sat on the bed, with his foot cocked and ticking like the big hand of a broken clock, and between I’m um, from the United States.
Look, if I could draw a map of his eyes, I’d draw silence. First, I’d outline my body in rud. Bloodshot up my calves, until I reached my shoulders. It’d be don’t blink here or here when I picked up my feet, reached for the door handle and pulled. That’s when I swung and let my chest crack. Even when he choked me. I swear I fucking fought til I felt the burn of dirt on my slatted back. But God, fucking damnit I wish I had more words left other than help me God, someone, help me.
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