Hobble Creek Review
| Mary Biddinger |
THE EDGE OF TOWN
Girls walked the tracks
in terrycloth halters, lingered
around concrete blocks jutting
through the reeds. The horizon:
shattered windows of a high rise
like the quivering squares of water
left when I pressed my tongue
against a screen door. Fourteen
and too old to ride a three-speed
along the river bed. Freight cars
carried the men south, stalled
at intersections for hours while
the girls smoked Parliaments
under a cloak of citronella.
I soaked my hands every night
but refused to rinse my hair
in beer like they did, fingers
on the pull-tab and heads upside
down in the shower. Sometimes
they would tag the rail cars
in spray paint: foxy or wash me
or hearts and daggers. We pasted
leaves and wrappers on our bodies
with spit, ate our lunches squatting
in the clearing, matches ready
for ticks. When three men drifted
down the river on their backs
we looked to the trees. A grackle
landed on one man’s naked
stomach, began preening. Trout
churned in the shallows as he
pinwheeled through the cattails
like a windmill with white eyes.
You could still see tobacco spit
on his chin, a wristband of black
electrical tape under waterlogged
flannel. We used branches to push
him until the river took over.
I saw him for years after that day:
behind the wheel of an ice truck,
in a conductor’s hat and coveralls.
Lurking in the stalls of the farmer’s
market, iridescent behind corn silk.
Across the hospital waiting room,
hand wrapped in a green gingham
curtain. Beneath a wool army blanket
in my bed, in damp spaces between
my back and the hardwood floor.
FERNS
Step into my pantry,
down the stairs into ankle
deep leaves. Fronds
bulge in your pockets
like lipstick. Skirts are for
girls. We’re older
and sleepless eight
years since. We both cut
our hair at thirty,
traded the rivets
and magazines for tempura.
The nights of wax.
Butter pressed in
the shape of a lamb, clown.
Pencil sketches
of our bodies dredged
from the botanical garden
pond. Deer watching.
The slim bronze pair
they’d erect in memoriam.
That cool summer
we carried glass
tumblers everywhere, like
scapulae. Remember
our tan lines, field
glasses. Contact dermatitis.
Asleep in the reeds
without a basket.
Follow my porch rails in
autumn darkness.
How they feel under
hands: coverlet, egg white,
kerosene, ultraviolet.
Girls walked the tracks
in terrycloth halters, lingered
around concrete blocks jutting
through the reeds. The horizon:
shattered windows of a high rise
like the quivering squares of water
left when I pressed my tongue
against a screen door. Fourteen
and too old to ride a three-speed
along the river bed. Freight cars
carried the men south, stalled
at intersections for hours while
the girls smoked Parliaments
under a cloak of citronella.
I soaked my hands every night
but refused to rinse my hair
in beer like they did, fingers
on the pull-tab and heads upside
down in the shower. Sometimes
they would tag the rail cars
in spray paint: foxy or wash me
or hearts and daggers. We pasted
leaves and wrappers on our bodies
with spit, ate our lunches squatting
in the clearing, matches ready
for ticks. When three men drifted
down the river on their backs
we looked to the trees. A grackle
landed on one man’s naked
stomach, began preening. Trout
churned in the shallows as he
pinwheeled through the cattails
like a windmill with white eyes.
You could still see tobacco spit
on his chin, a wristband of black
electrical tape under waterlogged
flannel. We used branches to push
him until the river took over.
I saw him for years after that day:
behind the wheel of an ice truck,
in a conductor’s hat and coveralls.
Lurking in the stalls of the farmer’s
market, iridescent behind corn silk.
Across the hospital waiting room,
hand wrapped in a green gingham
curtain. Beneath a wool army blanket
in my bed, in damp spaces between
my back and the hardwood floor.
FERNS
Step into my pantry,
down the stairs into ankle
deep leaves. Fronds
bulge in your pockets
like lipstick. Skirts are for
girls. We’re older
and sleepless eight
years since. We both cut
our hair at thirty,
traded the rivets
and magazines for tempura.
The nights of wax.
Butter pressed in
the shape of a lamb, clown.
Pencil sketches
of our bodies dredged
from the botanical garden
pond. Deer watching.
The slim bronze pair
they’d erect in memoriam.
That cool summer
we carried glass
tumblers everywhere, like
scapulae. Remember
our tan lines, field
glasses. Contact dermatitis.
Asleep in the reeds
without a basket.
Follow my porch rails in
autumn darkness.
How they feel under
hands: coverlet, egg white,
kerosene, ultraviolet.
Mary Biddinger is Assistant Professor of English at the University of Akron
and NEOMFA program. Her poems have appeared in such places as the
American Literary Review, The Notre Dame Review, and Ploughshares. Mary's
first collection of poems, Prairie Fever, is due out this Spring from Steel Toe
Books. The poems featured here are from that manuscript.
and NEOMFA program. Her poems have appeared in such places as the
American Literary Review, The Notre Dame Review, and Ploughshares. Mary's
first collection of poems, Prairie Fever, is due out this Spring from Steel Toe
Books. The poems featured here are from that manuscript.
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