s a r a h m a r s h a l l
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This wanting and unwanting
this constant
bending and
unbending:
no.
It is not for us, or not
for this place
and in the end you cannot tell me that we are not it.
look at the gristmill, the bones of the gristmill
broken windows like cavities, their darkness, a sweetness
a sweetness half-remembered, now in sleep—
what do we have to feel guilty for, if not for
our bloods flowing somewhere in this place
beneath our feet
beneath both of our feet
but not any others (for they walk somewhere else, or
think they do)—
and this part of us, separated,
unneeded, and bout
calling and calling through the dark
of this hour
through the dark
of all hours:
there can be
no end to this
there can be no packing away of
the white graduation dress, yearbook
porcelain jewelry irised with silver, gold
the beads you wore that broke against my teeth
the bruises I gave you when I held you too tightly
against all cold
the mark your hair left on the palm of my hand.
do not pack these things away.
do not dream of
other places, of a child born a
way from here:
she will go back.
your blood, your only blood
knows where it is needed
where it is unneeded
where it must be.
We are the lucky ones.
They all want homelands.
They all want the straight, the unendness, endless,
gone
and in all their losting lives there is nothing like
the surging of your body, blood singing, blood
sung
against my arms, against that black wood
beneath the thick air that knows our faces
that will know how to touch them even when
we are gone.
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Some catch their birds in lime—
on the stick their feet and wings will stick against
like flies on paper,
although
not like the flies
their sound goes unswallowed by the thing that
approaches
and they singout, singout, singout still
as if they have no knowledge of a hangman.
These are game for men in sweet, dry countries
and sustenance for us.
The birds here do not sing as their brothers
and will not rest beside an open palm.
They know what thumbs do.
When big ones still came here, we took them, too
But now there is only
This killing of a wrist’s weight
Gladly taken, behind the song
For wanting can become a game
Even for we who have no right
for anything but
the thumb’s weight,
the eversticking
wing on wood and wing wing on wing
and wingless flight of needing.
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SARAH MARSHALL’s poetry has appeared most recently in The Roanoke Review, and her first published short story is forthcoming from Hayden’s Ferry Review in April 2012. She is a student in the MFA Fiction and MA English programs at Portland State University, where she also serves as Editor-in-Chief of The Portland Review. “Birding” and “Losting” depict the fictional town of Rose, Oregon, which is also the setting for her current work-in-progress, a novel titled Sparrowrise. |
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