Two Poems
By Grace Rogers
Photo by Brooke Morrison.
[Moved Somewhere]
Moved somewhere. Stayed up to midnight.
Flew elsewhere.
Came back. Got fleas.
Did not own a horse.
Had a photoshoot with a microphone
trying to look like you. Couldn’t.
Did not own a horse. Couldn’t. Arm looked weird.
Prayed. Stayed up
to midnight to tell [ ] happy birthday.
Almost didn’t. Bled
again. It was cold
out for the first time. Listened
to recordings of myself
when I was nine
beat-boxing and talking about cigarettes, red lipstick,
and bleached hair. Listened
to the song you sent
and got set out
to sea with no clothes on. Got set out
to see with no compass. Got
turned around.
Loved it.
Thought of you
Playing guitar. The creek was going
on and on
in the background. The creek was going no dna no.
I’m the background. Just wouldn’t shut up. Had too much to say.
The cows were there. The mosquito left a perfect imprint of herself when smashed
against my thigh. Not her
body/the reflection. There was always so much
to say. Said half
a Hail Mary. Knew only that.
Said sorry. Marveled
at the narrator’s disdain
for the woman’s body. Picked
anise hyssop. Touched
the sycamore. Marbled trunk
with sun. Told people
attention was prayer. Read that somewhere. Expected
people to look
me in the eye. Told people I didn’t know too much.
Told people too much.
People I didn’t know.
Never bleached my hair.
Tried not to take care
of an old friend. I didn’t have it
in me but I knew
I’d give it. I’d always gave
it before. Had things. Did not
own them. You played
guitar. When you played
guitar I wanted
to be it. Wanted
a horse. Never had it. Arms looked
weird. Got drunk. Still
didn’t have it
in me, but I’d make it.
Conjure it.
A ghost. A horse.
I didn’t have it.
She couldn’t.
No one could,
but except you
could please
haunt me. Got drunk once in the middle of Father’s Day
and walked with her all over
this town. Moved to it. Didn’t really
know her. She doesn’t live here anymore, but I saw her Saturday
night. There was still
so much. To say.
Said it. Couldn’t not say it. Thought it
was a ghost. Said she got me
drunk and made me
move here. Said she left
me high and dry.
Grinned. Threw arrows
and watched them burst
into confetti. Observed the mirrored shield as it
rose behind her eyes.
She saw only arrows. She saw no confetti. Watched the reflection
of my bowstring in her pupil. Could not make it
bearable. Could not recover. Watched her go
away. Asked you
to haunt me. I’d let you.
Haunt me. I think
you might already.
Never got good. God
at beat-boxing. Never had the time. Made it anyway.
Cleveland
In Cleveland we went around
in the car. Wastelands
down below: the grey-black
stains of empire and industry implements
cast their shadows somehow
upward into the upset
sky. We saw how dust is
made. Cleveland is where
they make dust. My stomach
rumbled with sadness. We went down
in a hole where the Marshalls
was and looked up and around
at not mountains. Interstates and trellised layers
of crackling road cleaved by snow
plows crashing and frozen
water expanding. In Marshall’s we bought
matching purple jumpsuits on a whim. My hips
pushed out of them like I’d give this all back 4 your love we ate
rice, fish, seaweed, vegetables then cookies and watched Beetlejuice. We fell asleep
and that’s when it came
to me. I was haunted just like the house
in the movie just like a blackened field
of concrete and chopped up dust
trimmed by Ohio drivers creaking
slowly along, no blinkers
no blinkers. I was haunted like a field!
I was so happy unhappy. I’d been happy
for a long time but swallowing
down poison. I imagined a skeleton burned
to a crisp overlaying my everyday
skeleton. It made me do bad
things like hate, live in the future
or past, consume various poisons,
embrace the void, reject the void,
be grumpy, lie, cheat, steal, and/or be
late for things. The next morning,
when we got to Lake Erie, I told one
of us about my ghost and that I had to get her
out. Then maybe I’d stop thinking
about myself so much instead
of loving on everyone. We lay there
in the sun for a while and then lay there
in the clouds. We read and ate
orange slices one of us cut
for us and one of us let us sip from her
raspberry tea. We went in the water.
It’s a lake, yes, but you can’t
see the end of it. Or it’s a lake yes,
and you can’t see the end of it. It’s an end
less one. The only end for us was that orange
buoy bobbing over there. We dipped
our toe. The white line
of shells bordering the edge
of the waves crunched below
our feet/rubbed off all the wrong-
doing. We waded in, jumped in,
dunked ourselves. You know this
trick: it’s baptism. You’ve seen
it one thousand and one times, but the water
was so cold and pushed us around
and we let it. It felt
good. Then charred. The bits
of my haint crumbled
off. Dust to dust
and all that. I kissed our cheeks,
patted our heads. Thought about this
land and who was on it before
it was made to fall in
on itself. Then I zoomed
out to the whole planet
and all the water and rocks
on it pushing each other around
for so long. Like so
long. We went to the museum
and looked at ancient art and cried
at this statuette from 500BC.
A Greek girl with a partially shaved head
covering her face with her hands. I told
the others of us that one of us was crying
before we saw her
have to explain ourself
to ourself without being
prepared. We was in control
of the situation. The little
Greek girl was so sad
and so old and so dead.
About the Author:
Grace Rogers is a writer and musician from Owingsville, Kentucky. Her work can be found in Inverted Syntax, Mayday Magazine, and Cold Mountain Review. She was an artist in residence at the Kentucky Foundation for Women’s Hopscotch House in 2018, and is currently a Charlie Whitaker Memorial Apprentice studying east Kentucky banjo styles at the Cowan Creek Mountain Music School.
