WHEN THE DIVING DUCK DISAPPEARS (WHERE DOES HE GO?)
your body’s first response to a bone fracture is, simply,
to bleed. & isn’t it something almost-like magic the way
an animal knows how to heal? this knitting of instinct &
kismet & sunbaked top-40 & the way my gray hair grows
towards the light, as if to say: heaven knows, heaven knows.
oh, my child: haven’t you grown? & haven’t you seen how
the finger lakes stretch & flex & crack their knuckles like
teenagers mixing pop rocks & coke for the very first time;
& what first-date jitters we make of fireworks & clean teeth,
as if to say: you live inside the open mouth of an animal who
wants you dead. & you call this home, you call this country.
you call this america—& you call your mother, the only
number you still know by memory, & she answers on the
third ring, as if to say: oh, darling—you look so pretty by all
this blue! oh love, the water has always suited you! & you
know that blood is a blessing; know how your grandmother
laid down in the soil one night in late-May & folded her skin
into tulip seams & marigold leaves & all other such wilder-
ness you try & grow, still. know how you pray for rain, &
call it family reunion. know how laura says do whatever
you want it’s the end of times & you say at least there’s a
lovely sea breeze—know how the day drifts on: & so do i,
& so do i.
Previously published by The Honest Ulsterman
IN EVERYTHING THAT IS GREEN
do you remember the summer we spent in the country of your
grandfather’s pickup truck? how it had no air conditioning or
working radio; how we had no choice but to pump our arms,
like raising water from a well of single-malt milkshakes, & roll
every window down by hand, happily. how we sang along to
nothing but the history of hand-me-downs & forget-me-nots;
how that was the one thing we knew how to carry. that summer,
when we captured the july heat in jars & unraveled oranges in a
rusting flatbed. how we made a game out of leaving a kingdom
of rinds coiled around our ankles; how we pressed our teeth &
fresh orange juice filled our glasses & how we left the pulp for
the punks & the bees & the holidays built from scar tissue & lime.
that summer: we daisy-chained our mouths to mixtapes & dressed
our gods in skinny jeans & black band tees. how we built ourselves
a religion we could relate to, finally, & how we called it under-
ground (so that we might stop arching our necks: we, who were
so tired, already). that summer, which was as unforgiving as we
were young—that summer & how she called boys back home
before the streetlights even turned on. that summer:
& how she baked us alive.
An avid introvert and full-time carbon-based life-form, Ashley Cline crash-landed in south Jersey twenty-nine years ago and still calls that strange land home. Most often found listening to Carly Rae Jepsen, her essays on music and feelings have been published by Sound Bites Media, while her poetry has appeared in 404 Ink, perhappened mag and Okay Donkey Magazine. She graduated from Rowan University in 2013 with a Bachelor’s degree in Journalism, and her best at all-you-can-eat sushi is 5 rolls in 11 minutes. Her first chapbook, “& watch how easily the jaw sings of god” is forthcoming from Glass Poetry Press. Twitter: @the_Cline. Instagram: @clineclinecline.