Poetry: Gretchen Marquette

Flame

Summer was almost over.
The hallways of the junior high school
were already breathing, the pool
filling, the mirrors in the bathrooms
had begun to blink. The scars gouged
into the flame resistant tables
in the chemistry lab started their ache
for AP who loved RS
4-ever. Tubes of florescent
light were being replaced, floors
were being waxed like lips.

That night in the basement
guestroom, last slumber party
of summer, shag carpet, unfamiliar
bedspread thin and slightly damp—
the only light came from a faux
fireplace, a hot orange Christmas
bulb, a spinning tube
of foil. Logs made of the same
plastic as your Halloween mask.
The shadows on
the walls danced like fauns.
When she put her hand
under your pajama top,
on the small of your back,
you left it there, didn’t you? You felt it
move a fraction of an inch
and then stop,
you saw the blood move
in every finger, like she was lit
from inside.

I want to wait until she
falls asleep and then
I want to tell you:
One day it will return.
You’ll be thirty years old
and the most wistful
you’ll feel is remembering
this fake fire, the particular
orange and shudder of it,
and you’ll want it back,

smaller this time,
made to fit in the palm of your hand.
Or else large,
large enough to illuminate all you have
and then burn it down.

Homecoming

You returned, only
for a quick look
and nobody was there
so you stayed,
began a salvage
mission for the stilled
swings in the park,
white and winged
like swans, the river
rushing its
cargo of fallen trees
toward the edge
of the world.

The woods around
your house still
hid rabbits, larger
than dogs, jewel-
eyed and severe in their
gratitude—all that lettuce,
all those years. The deer
left their hooves for you
in the sand near the mulberry,
and lifted their bones to fly
over the neighbor’s
fence. Watching them,
it still smacked
of trickery.

You began your collection
with the smell of decay,
desiccated toads
in the plastic pail, the leaves
at the bottom of the pile
and the phantasm
of the squirrel, her body
too far out
in the bracken
to be found.
You chose blossoms

of strawberries, white and
yellow like eggs in a pan and
the neat bouquets of lantana,
your mother’s
(mother’s mother’s)
favorite. It’s enough
to split the cerebellum
to say that she loved
lantana, and you love
lantana. To know: same teeth
chewing irrational fears—
Wolf spiders. Fast
water. Feral cats
from the quarry
yowling, All we want
is a little lap! Milk!
Give! Give! Give!
In the nest, the robin’s
white rimmed eye, her
eggs warm and sky
colored, songs unfolding
inside cells.

A field of poppies for a girl
to dowse herself in,
a thicket for a fawn
to hide. The wind
and the siren, the piano
and the dish of candy
like green glass. Strings
of lights hushed with snow.
Elephantine clouds, grey or
pink, clouds with
the given names
of gods—Nimbus.
Cirrus. Uncle
holds your hand, says
Red sky at night,
sailor’s delight. You look,
but this is all you can carry,

can you let it be enough?

All rights reserved to Gretchen Marquette.