Lucy Logsdon
Days of 1979When we slid into her dad’s four by four,
we were smart as anything. Slim, long-limbed, we oiled our bodies as much as the truck—hands lingering over each curve, fender, each slender hip. Camels, unfiltered, were the only things we’d smoke, flicking the ashes, then our hair, blown the color of hay dried and raked all summer. She shifted gears, grinding from first to fourth, pushing the polished red Ford forward, an eight horse engine out of the gate, revving past the Bar-B-Que, the Sunoco, and onto the two-lane highway, running from town. In those days of 1979, we were racing toward the lives we knew existed somewhere beyond the cornfield’s horizon, beyond the dust, beyond our town’s dimming lights. At night, we would ignite with whiskey, rock n’ roll, and boys on the seat. She always said, the faster we drove, the better it got, until the familiar oaks, wheat, corn, bluebells and sweet williams finally dropped away. Her lips red, her nails pale enameled pink, she talked of skyscrapers, elevators, neon signs, of the way the nights stayed bright in a city—- as if we could see cities, as if we knew what lives those cities might hold. We hardly knew of death or the absences that solidify into endless presences. Our lives were all flux, rapid as a wild fire-- lost in the illumination, we never guessed that those days of beginnings were also days of endings; and I never dreamed that her lips, her cat-green eyes, ponytailed hair, her hands tapping the vinyl steering wheel, would be the loss that sleeps beside me nightly. My Last Poem ☊I am the perfect poem; I am so
well-behaved. Look at how my lines line up like a gentle, even path through the forest. My tone's cultivated, gently assertive. My meaning well tended. I do not want to startle the reader. No sudden bloated opossum corpses lurking around the corner, no stumble into tangled thickets, chiggers, thorns. No strange rashes or itches, just a gentle stroll until...of course, there's an until, there always is. Sudden wind. A drop in temperature. Lightning strikes have been detected 2.1 miles from this poem. Take shelter. Lightning strikes now detected .1 mile from this poem. Severe weather has been pinpointed exactly where you are. Hail breaks through the lines' canopy. A wind sheer carries off your best thoughts. A mistake has been made. Fatal errors have occurred. There is too much muchness in these woods. Time to bushwhack your way out. Poison ivy, ticks, copperheads, everywhere. No matter. They are you. This is what you grew up with; this is what you know. A fellow hiker shouts over the gale: you appear to be struggling. Perhaps you should turn back. To what? The melancholy of my bed, the nursing of failing limbs, the encroaching immobility, a pillar of salt. Give me what you've got. In this poem, I will walk until I die, I will crawl on all fours until I expire. I will go out as I came in. Naked. Howling. Hole. Twisted ☊The surgeon has straightened
me out as best he can, my bones fused, twined with stainless steel. Pins harness my skittish vertebrae, ball bearings support my questionable spine, my sideways being. I am myself, but a new construction, too. People treat you different when you are no longer bent. I see it in their face, the absence of dismissal. The lack of quick and fulsome pity, the small smile. I fear my spine, leaning, listing, going slant again. I fear the return to what I was. I have become an expert on curvature. I’ve learned a world of new terms, acquired fluency in deformity’s language. Kyphosis. Stenosis. Scoliosis. Hunchback. Call my misshape what you will. I could say that’s gone, the titanium rods are all inside, my crooked’s my secret. But one can only hide so much. The defects are always .....there, like the flaws in a weakened bridge, the mending plates in a rehabbed house. Straight’s been way overrated; the cripple lurks inside. And she comes out, whenever there’s something I don’t like. I tilt, I stumble, I shuffle down the corridors. I remind you of what you’re not. I shoulder myself against walls. I keep the center off. Childhood of the StorytellerStory One.
When I was seven, I told my mother the kids at school called me names, pushed frogs in my face, made me put my lips on the soft, amphibious skin. Story Two. I was an awkward child. They did things. I placed my version in gravel lots’ dark corners--not the locker room's showers. Story Three. I spelled out my suffering in forked tongue; I hissed and croaked. The playground was a monstrosity. I crawled into my reptile skin; I slid into the swamp. Revision. My parents and teachers wondered what was wrong. Why couldn't I tell the truth? I twisted my hands. Story Four. Toad. Story Five. For show and tell, I opened my palm: See this polished stone; it turns you to something Other. Our second chance. They washed my mouth out with soap, set me in the corner-- red chair on black and white linoleum squares. Liar, liar, pants on fire. Next. Memory will cover the mess; you tell yourself what you need to. I was a lovely child. I had lots of friends. The Truth. What they lacked in imagination, they made up for with fists. My nose bent, broke. My mouth burbled blood and spit. Every crowd needs a scapegoat. We hold the group together. Why me? —one of childhood's oldest stories. I made do with what I had. I leaned into the words; I bit down hard. |
Mirror, MirrorIf you had to reflect princesses
all day long, you'd get tired, too. Go ahead, they simper, tell me I'm the fairest, the grandest, the prize. Always, I whisper, you wash in the looks of men, towel dry with the leftovers. That prince never stood a chance. Valiant, Magnificent, Harry, Handsome, Dick; all the same. I get weary. My words, never enough. These girls want more. Silvered reflection, shadowed truths. I cast their beauty back at them--- their breasts, lips, hips, cheeks still plump as the orchard's freshest peach. Later comes the drying out, the collapse. Wrinkles, sags, erasure. And then, dear girls, nothing will save you. No mud tinctures, pharmacy grade ointments, holy water, snake oil, botox or filler will stop the desiccation. Then you’ll break me into thirteen jagged pieces, but each shard will still tell a tale: once upon a time, this princess was beauty, now she is revelation. Am I the wickedest? Look into my tarnished eyes. I was you; I paid the price. Every girl has to. The-it-can't-happen becomes the-happened, age's impossible black shoe squarely on one’s foot. Here, on the other side, we become something different, crone-shaped and powerful. The blue skies no longer thrill us, we want storms descending. Winter's cold winds, the loss of permanence-- oh, we plan to sing and dance in the subtraction. With each loss we grow, until finally, we are nothing, and everything—the sum at the end, the sheet covered mirror. How to Leave Yourself1.
Wait until the day rubs against you like transparent silk and your skin feels as smooth as an extended nap, the only disturbance the coming dusk. Stare at the diminished light, the place where orange sky sinks into field. Walk to that exact spot and step through, not as though entering water, but cautiously climbing— right leg followed by left as though lifting yourself over the last electric fence. 2. Whatever you do, don’t look back. The wheat shimmers in the moonlight; the rustling of the elms’ leaves sound out your name. It’s so much easier than you ever would have guessed. Behind you the shadows of a girl with raven hair sink into mud, manure, cornfields, dust. 3. What you walk toward is vaster than the solar system and smaller than a single pore upon your body. What you walk toward reeks with a honeysuckle scent. It’s as tall and persistent as the Johnson grass you once knew. It’s as dizzying as the top of the tallest white oak, shaking in lightning storm’s wind. It is the culmination of every night slept beneath a red-starred quilt—- dreaming of the rutted paths the cows take when they never come home. FairytaleShe cocks her head with its long brown
hair, and talks down to me. She’s like an ice queen, a princess. In my house. The world revolves around her. I am humbled by my new insignificance. My minor role in this tale. I provide shelter, food, I provide something to ignore. While wolves didn’t leave her at my door, they might as well have for all the affinity she has for me. The mammal smell I emit is faintly musky. We both scent female. We both use our mouth to eat. Here the similarities end. She’s in this story because she has to be. Until she finds her exit which she’s steadily sniffing for. I didn’t bring her into this world, but I still feel guilt. She doesn't care how she got here, what it took. What she would like is Out. And my middle aged body is so blocking the way. She'll study me, she'll watch how I maneuver. And then she'll mimic my words, my tone, my clothes, my gifts. She's a brilliant impostor. All survivors are. Like me. When they brought me in, I was bloodied and torn. I might be her mother. Or the hag with the apple. And what about love? If we could just insert a red thread of warmth, a yellow strand of care, then we might have a better story. One that doesn't have to end with the body in the well. One that opens in a new direction. I fed her milk. I warmed her hands. Death went to a different door. The Princess and the PeaI opened the window, started throwing
things out. Goodbye love, so long typewriter, flowered flounce chair, whiskey tumbler, full ashtray, unsmoked cigarettes. There goes ambition, bounce, bounce. Next comes love, the pink and red starred quilt, the delicately stitched moon patterns. No more having to lie in what I've made. I keep looking for that tiny pea of disturbance, that one word if erased, whited out, rephrased, would let me rest. But nothing comes; I am blankness. Cover my wounds; shroud my sorrows. Out go the photos, out goes the phone, out all the maimed writings that refuse to add up. Soon it will be me flying through the window. Down, down goes the princess. How did I get this so wrong? I just wanted a little quiet rest. A pea safe inside a pod. I wanted to crawl down deep into the heart of everything, a seed snug in layered dirt. I wanted the world to cushion me, like layers and layers of inflatable bedding. I wanted Costco sized security. No wonder it was never enough. The entire world is my disturbance---niggling, needling, the stone in my shoe.
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