MARIANA TRENCH

After Elizabeth Bradfield

anchor. ​A heavy object attached to a rope or chain and used to moor a vessel to the sea bottom,
typically one having a metal shank with a ring at one end of the rope and a pair of curved and/or
barbed flukes at the other.
When I was ten, my Aunt Stacy pushed me off a boat to get her sunhat. She knew I was
scared of the water. The air knocked from my rib cage​—I heaved gasping breaths when I
reached the warm surface to see everybody laughing. Barbed wires piercing my chest. I forgot
about the ladder. I wanted to disappear—to sink like a submarine. Quiet and mysterious. I
stopped kicking and became an anchor. Sinking. Lumbering lead in my soft lungs. Pulling me
down to the depths of the ocean floor where the darkness shines brightest. Among all the
unsightly, bottom-dwelling creatures that lurk in the seabed of strange obscurity. Hidden in the
thick dust of littered plastic bags, beer cans, and other disposables. The distorted silence—the
pressure of the world on my shoulders. Do you think time stops at the bottom of the sea?

cove. ​1. A small sheltered bay. 2. A concave arched molding, especially one formed at the
junction of a wall with a ceiling.
This is the place you hide. Where the hungry mouths of mountains and rolling hills wrap
their lips around you​—​caressing your naked frame as the spray’s knuckles kiss your weary face.
S​wirling with the ​salty lingering of tears. Yet the ocean lies inside of you. Your own hidden
cove. With hollow grottos and growing pains like choppy waves​—​crashing upon steep cliffs and
dark caves. The steady collapse of the tide forms an incessant hum in the back of your mind.
Drawing you in with promises to remedy your thoughts. Sneaky sirens on sunken rocks. Cover
your ears.

oars. ​A pole with a flat blade at one end used to row or steer a boat through the water.
This is how they use you. Head first​—​dipped in honey syrup. The worst part is you will
let them. Greedy hands clasped tightly around your bruised throat as they row you through their
own shipwrecks. This is how they use you. An anchored buoy to keep them afloat. Drilled deep
into the sand like a roach cigarette. Deployed as a cruiser in a game of Battleship. Dropped like
an anchor into the sea. Sinking. Who taught you this is love?

rope. ​1. A length of strong cord made by twisting together strands of natural fibers such as hemp
or artificial fibers such as polypropylene.
Keep it hidden under your bed. When your mom finds the piece of rope, tell her it’s for
kinky things and she’ll never ask again. Take it out when you need to—when the cord is strong
and you are not. Hold it tightly in your hand until the fibers burn your palms. Practice knots. Tie
the rope to the fan on the ceiling. Watch it sway back-and-forth. Put it back under the bed. Pull it
out a few months later. Tie it to something sturdier like a mast. Wear it as a necklace. Remember
your mom. Put it away. Promise not to do it again, even if it’s a lie. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.

starfish. ​A marine ​echinoderm with five or more radiating arms. The undersides of the arms bear
tube feet for locomotion and, in predatory species, for opening the shells of mollusks.
 Did you know a starfish is not actually a fish? This is the tragedy of labels. To be a rare
species of distinct shape, submerged in the open sea just to be placed in a treasure chest. Bolted
by a lock with no key. They tell me I belong under the surface when I know I should be up there
with the full moon. I’m drowning in the sand. Sinking. Deeper into the dust of lost time. Flushed
rosy cheeks suctioned to the snaring seabed of the bathroom floor from crying—arms and legs
spread like the star I know I am not.

lighthouse. ​A tower or other structure containing a beacon light to warn or guide ships at sea.
This is how I find my way back. An experienced mariner lost at sea. I’m not too far gone,
am I? Because through the fog, I can see a sliver of light break through the sky once blanketed in
gray—like the cigar remnants in my father’s ashtray. Guiding me back to safety—navigating the
rough waters of a stormy existence. This is when you make a choice. For a lighthouse is not just
a beacon. It is a proposal and a warning—the mother welcoming you home with open arms or
the father crushing your bones beneath sharp rocks. Which scares you more? I shift the oar.
THE FALL

I wish I could remember the days things changed,

When the sunflowers and poppies that flourished in my mind
Wilted away and decomposed—
Or when my body became a hurricane, an earthquake,
A natural disaster created for destruction and chaos
That children feared and I loathed.

I did things I’d never done before,

Drowning myself in a sea of poison masked by the sweet taste
Of honeyed syrup and down I fell—
Venom slithering down my throat like the sinister serpent,
Stealing my fruits and leaves until I was naked
And found myself in hell.

I am the touch of blessed death,

The shadowy figure in the darkness bringing about sin
And horrid nightmares unsaid—
That puts out lit cigarettes on pale, bruised skin
And swallows fragments of broken glass
Until seas and rivers weep red.
WHERE DANDELIONS COME FROM

After Alicia Mountain

When my little sister falls and scrapes

her knees, I pick the yellow flower

from our front lawn and place it in

her hand to distract her from the burn in

her skin. She has seen them before in

the spring—growing in the fields of grass

behind our house or deeper in the woods,

swaying with the wind on a rocky hillside

or blooming from the crack of a broken

sidewalk. Lion-toothed drop of sun

thriving in the most difficult of conditions.

She doesn’t know the dandelion I have

picked from the dirt is not actually a flower,

but a weed. Every year, I watch mother

spray herbicide in the fields to get rid of

them, but they always return—even though

they had been picked and plucked and poisoned

by the gardeners who saw beauty in a red rose

or a row of maroon tulips or beds of daisies

and daffodils, but never the dandelion. I will

tell her the truth, but not today. Not after I see her
put the yellow dandelion behind her ear and smile.
REQUIEM FOR YOUTH

Abandoned leaves scattered across the ground

Dwindled by frost and time
While the tall branches of the pines
Mourn for their seasonal loss
Burdened by the exposure and vulnerability
Of its bare, bleak limbs—

My breath turns to smoke among the brisk air

Tiny clouds of ashen smog
Slowly fading into the blinding white background
Of the snow-blanketed forest I call home
Where redwood trees dusted in silvery powder
Remind me of a simpler time

When my little sister and I would explore

The depths of the woods
Bundled in our puffy jackets like marshmallows
And snowball fights with my brother
That ended in burns and bruises and bloody noses
And hot cocoa by the fire

Or when my mother took me to go sledding down

Hills as white as grandma’s hair
Or when my father came out to build a snowman
With us made of coal and buttons
And a half-eaten carrot and they still liked
To kiss under the mistletoe.

Untouched paradise encumbered in fresh snow,

Forgive me, but I envy you—
To be pure and unbroken and cold to the touch,
To not have the branding imprint
Of someone else’s boots on the delicate
Surface of your own skin.
MR. SANDMAN AND THE INSOMNIAC

As I lay in bed to settle

My eyes droop and shine
Like the dainty petals
Of a freshly-watered garden,
Yet slumber eludes me
And I beg your pardon—
But if it does not trouble thee,
Mr. Sandman, could you bring me a dream?
I’m tired of living nightmares.
Please just let me sleep—
Whisper a lullaby sedately
And bury me in your quicksand,
For I’m so alone lately—
My mind lost in no man’s land.
Red eyes idly watching the fan blades spin,
The stain on the wall no longer grins—
My body slipping through the seams
Of a mattress that has killed all dreams.
WINTER MOURNING

Behind my grandmother’s house lies a blanket of snow

In the backwoods of the boundless forest
Where the smoking chimney casts a shadow—
Swallowing me whole like wild dogs devour sweet hares
As the dawn transforms into morning
And the pups of alpha wolves nip at my booted heel.

This is the place the dapple grey stallion rests its hooved heels
And I can let my silenced tears flow like thawed out snow
Since no one else is awake this morning—
Nor the frosted plants or hibernating animals in the forest
Yet the rabbit runs home with blood in her hair
As she is chased and hunted down by the shadow.

My past followed me here, creeping behind like a shadow

And still they expect me to move on and heal
With a bite wound like the fox gave the innocent hare—
As I watched the crimson reach its arms out to the white snow
Of the dimly distorted—breathing and hungry forest
Where the mother gathered food that one winter morning.

The orphans waited for days and then grieved in their mourning
As the maternal hare became a faded shadow
Haunting the chilled dirt and roots and trees of the forest—
But the drove of leverets in their nest made an effort to heal
That terrible winter as they scoured through snow
For food without their mother to nestle against their frosted hairs.

I feel as though I must find and carry and protect all the hares
Of the woodlands to keep them from morning
When the sun rises in the east and glitters upon the fresh snow—
Revealing the old hare’s footprints to be lost in the shadows
Like the hasty kick of her hurried heels
Never took place in the darkest part of the forest.

Caught in a trap, the smallest rabbit was left behind in the forest
Where he squealed in agony for the other hares
And I felt the scarred ache from the pups again in my heel—
Beneath an evergreen, I found his neck snared by a wire that morning
And set the hare free to walk beside him with my own shadow
As I followed the dappled grey onward to spring through melting snow.

For the road hidden in the snow of the forest

Is obscured by the shadow lurking behind the weakest hare—
Trudging through morning towards the light until he abandons his bloodied heel.
PALINODE FOR MY MOTHER TAKING CARE OF A TROUBLED TEEN

After Katrina Vandenberg

Let me take it all back: the fourteenth of May

when I did not sit in the white office of some strange
psychologist where you cried about how your daughter
had disappeared and died and I did not look at you

puzzled in awe and confusion because I thought

I was the only one who noticed the way my lips never
creased when we went to walk along the Mendocino coast
which was once my favorite thing to do and how

I did not lose my voice and began to respond to you

in hushed murmurs of ​yes a​ nd ​no​ and ​maybe ​and ​not today,​
but mostly ​no​ and sometimes ​go away ​or the warm days
that I refused to take my sweater off or how the clear

vacancy in my bloodshot eyes did not scream for

the help I thought I did not need or the bottles of vodka I did not
keep hidden in my desk or the weeks I did not spend sleeping
in a bed I eventually thought would be my coffin.

Let me take it all back: the coldest winter

where I could not admit to you that I had relapsed
after you heard me crying in the bathroom and begged me
to open the door as the blood did not bridge the gap

from under its frame that separated you from

me as we stood trembling on the opposite sides of mirrored
cliffs in soaking white nightgowns above the river Acheron or
how I misled you into believing that I would never

do it again even after you watched the sea spray of

black ink stain the cotton trim hanging around my ankles
as the tar swallowed me up to my knees and the waves of woe
washed down none of the dissolving pills in my pocket

because I had convinced myself I did not need them—

not until that day I felt your hand reach for mine before pulling
my body from the water I did not know I needed saving from
because I did not realize I had already jumped.
ON BEING TOLD TO WRITE WHATEVER I WANT

After Alicia Mountain

The blank page stares at me

As ink drips from the tip of a pen
Staining the heel of my palm—
Drying before I’ve even begun

The horizontal lines are waiting

For me to fill them with lovely words
That sing from the page like a nymph—
Music laced together by the strings of a harp

But I do not want to write poems that carry a soft tune

Or soothe the reader to a place of serenity and calm
Or conjure beautiful images of the natural world
Or hold their hand as a means of comfort

I want to write poems of raw sensibility

I want to write poems that scream until ears bleed
I want to write poems with splotches of coffee spilled in the margins
I want to write poems that leave behind periwinkle bruises to touch and remember