Cathlin Noonan
Self-Portrait as Inherited Riverine Landscapes
My seed grows translucent roots, wisps—
something phantom as I ask my aunt of our pub
near the Scovill Plant. I cannot know the gaping mouths
who once watched my grandfather comb the pints,
who now pock soil under St. Mary’s yard. I taste
only this burping marsh of sod, compost
of a town’s last century self, sponge of other plants
squeezed around my hackled tangles. I know
the moss that feathers my lungs and tend
the corkscrew creep of tendril crick in spine—
bracken basketing up my slump of banks, every one
from the Naugatuck to Ballinskelligs. I twine
the knotted slopes back through Little Blanco’s
cypress knees to Meramec and up to Hudson mud,
spiral into Saco until particles sift light
through the Liffey. Murk cuts my legs at the ankles
where green shafts of sun die in absorption.
To see with only feet, to form this way
each river stone’s edge against another, to slip
into the dark, to carve my heels upon the shale.
Look to the Mouth, Look to the Source
As if in preservation, she could ward off what starved her,
waxed beans, carrots, creamed corn–the cellar wall of cans,
a piecemeal garrison. I line up the cards. Is that the key,
the one used to pull storage for meals, returned to housecoat?
–stairs without risers, bony ankles, tissue in pocket–
She never liked girls. If she could keep the world its way,
as if in that preservation, she could ward off what starved her,
find meaning in little, hold sacrament but no bread,
a piecemeal garrison. I line up the cards. Is that the key?
–purse of lips, squint towards door, hands on the stomach swell–
How hard it is to enter again the pain of childhood–
she never liked girls. If she could keep the world its way,
turn something over on another, plain only from living
(finding meaning in little, holding sacrament but no bread)
in a time without grace, she could flower in full sun.
Turn a crank, wind the clock, find a sequence in the sand
how hard it is to enter again the pain of childhood,
shed the laden adult eye, inhabit mid-moment, mid-breath,
turn something over. On another plane, only from living
the scold or sting of hand, fury of a grandmother,
can I fold into blank spaces, flip forward the stills,
turn a crank, wind the clock, find a sequence in the sand.
I shuffle supplies, stitch up the cards. If I could tease motion,
shed the laden adult eye, swallow mid-moment, mid-breath,
a sacrament but no bread. Let me cup this
dust from atop my dresser, blow it into the sun.
Can I fold into blank spaces? Flip forward the stills.
–one icebox cake sags from early frosting, one sleeping porch–
I shuffle supplies, stitch up the cards. If I could tease motion
from what’s seen, spin the deck I hold. But I cannot
hear what longing soaked the feedsack pillows. I gather
dust from atop my dresser, blow it into the sun
above her sink. Take my mind’s hand, switch its grip.
–one icebox cake sags from early frosting, one sleeping porch,
one deliberate bite with dentures, one backyard oak split,
half-felled from being, tilting upwards mid-living–
Hear what longing soaks the feedsack pillows? I gather
these remnants to my ear. I must listen to remember her
over her sink. Take my mind’s hand, switch its grip
for my grandmother’s with the key. Cirrhosis at helm, at
wrist. Purple blooming on paper skin. What the seeing does.
Half-felled from being, tilting upwards mid-living
room, I pluck her sunk from the hospital bed. Whisper
these remnants in my ear. I must listen to remember her.
What five o’clock clatter settled at this table?
Some temperature, one evening felt new, an errant chill.
Purple vines on paper skin. What the seeing does
not untuck. Buds drop nearly to dust, dribble seed.
I pluck her sunk from the hospital bed. Whispery
ferns unfurl blue from a temple, silent from a mouth,
as if in preservation, I could ward off what starved her.