By Samantha Arriozola
by Samantha Arriozola
1.
the grass and trees are all stained glass and gospel:
glowing like green apple jolly ranchers on popsicle sticks.
i promise the sun to be bold if she will just stay a while—
i’m scared of the winter and she’s packing her things.
i’m scared of missing the jeweled reflections on the water
and drowning in glitter that i will never be able to leave.
the nets that are cast wide call me by hidden names.
i hope for an ending that is bloomed
rather than forecasted, but i am still trying
to understand the difference.
i buy my plants young in spring
to claim their growth,
but the forest belly-laughs
at my plastic soil. the trees here are hardy
and impatient in their joy.
i think i’m having a spiritual revelation,
but maybe i’m just being avoidant.
2.
if the moon sees it fit, i would like to ask his advice.
there’s people and people and a forest and me.
and the sun sees smiles and scoffs. she listens to our
“you’re from where?” “i think it’s really dope that you…” “first year?”
“i’m originally from…” “…school in Wisconsin…” “yea…WISCONSIN.”
and eventually our
“i don’t get homesick anymore” “…when people don’t leave…”
“…underfunded…” “we should talk…” “…more”
and the
“that’s incredible…” “…you, too.” addictive kindness and niceties until splinter.
3.
finger-sized figures over the hill.
if the head is turned this way,
will the sun-blurred outline make it through
the pebbles, hazy dragonflies, dancing grass?
silly girl to think that longing
was becoming in nature. she deserves
the fog to hold her sun and quiet her moon
and leave her sky-less.
did she already forget that just a few weeks earlier
she fought for a haunted man to haunt her, too?
that he came up, ghosts and all,
to know her skin and steal her eyes?
maybe it was a practice in kindness—
to allow herself to play house. microdosed
relationships and the gift of flesh by the pound.
a toothbrush and his lighter in the first drawer.
maybe she was being avoidant.
4.
a dead salamander splattered
in the endless rain
like tea leaves for the fortune teller.
this is a sign, this is a sign;
will he love me, will he not.
5.
the tornado warnings here in poyntelle, pennsylvania
make me homesick in a way i wouldn’t
share with anyone here. the panic that the campers
lack and the nerves that counselors chew
their boiled meals with is honest.
everyone is thinking of shelter while i dig
in the ground for familiar rocks.
the tropical storm watch in new york
is monitored under our pennsylvania rain.
maybe the wind from henri will take it all—
salamander skin on the window pane.
6.
on the day we left pennsylvania it rained again.
the buses approached and the campers cried,
emails and phone numbers and young summer love
and anecdotes of firsts. the instructors sat underneath
the covered gazebo, counting the wooden beams.
they said it wouldn’t rain, and look—
nothing but raindrops on all these faces.
if you had just turned your head,
you would have also seen a butterfly
trying not to have its parchment softened by the rain.
turn your head, turn your head.
7.
the “n”s are backwards on the NOW HIRING
sign of the first cement building i’ve seen
in two weeks. we are silent and solitary,
one person for every pair of seats.
we are leaving camp with an illusion
or a fantasy or a dream. if we all close our eyes
hard enough, maybe we can pretend
we’re friends. a hope that this was more
than just an isolated moment a mercy
of get-to-know-yous. a very real hope
that we will stay a while,
and then a while longer again.
8.
it’s the end of november and the birds are devouring
the seeding tree outside of my window.
after holding out for months, the leaves are finally turning
and the tree is being robbed bare. tufts of fluff from underbelly
feathers are caught in the elbows of branches,
the speckled birds don’t even notice as they gorge.
the pigeons have been usurped from the places they usually rest,
but now they watch the picking of the dying tree.
limb from limb, seed by seed, the birds finally bring winter.
© Samantha Arriozola 2024. All Rights Reserved.
Shanai Williams