forty-three feet above sea level
on a landfill peninsula
shaped by sediment and slag
a copper-smelting smokestack
melted nylon stockings
off backyard laundry lines
a mile away
seahorses curled
in tidal pools
we sat on old bath towels
creosote and kelp
our backs to the waves
under the porch shoulder blades scrape where light slats through to roots and dry dirt a tarpaper nail opaline insect shells pull the bandage aside we are stitched together
frost covers grass trees disappear in early night
sleepwalking we halve the distance follow luck like ruts down the mountain
photo by Samantha Malay, Seattle, Washington, 2020
lack of a plan felt like reason enough
to follow half-truths as if they were favors
sandwiches assembled on a plywood scrap
by whoever sat in the passenger seat
and sort the belongings of the recently dead
in a mobile home park outside San Bernardino
cactus in gravel at the edge of the road
TV too close to the couch
what I can claim is what I remember
crossing the border with pink paper flowers
streets with names like cowboy songs
ice on the floor in Victorville
the ocean only a shape on a map
we kneeled in pitch-stained jeans on pine needles tiny bones and porcupine quills to measure the distance by the sound of our voices between burn barrel sparks and when we would leave in numbers reduced by the shape of the mountain broken bootlaces and songs we forgot to an address written on a bus station paperback and a road that led away from the trees
photo by Samantha Malay, Seattle, Washington, 1990
untangle words from the kitchen phone around kids eating toast in their swimsuits macaroni salad in a margarine tub pale grass where the hose was coiled
count the cuts to open a can with a keychain P-38 thistle seeds on windshield dust a duffel bag on the passenger seat
photo by Samantha Malay, Long Beach, Washington, 1989
Yelm by Samantha Malay published in The Very Edge: Poems (Flying Ketchup Press 2020) ISBN-13: 978-1-970151-23-7 shorturl.at/lqr78
you can stand in the doorway to look at the night and pray against a family fate of muddy yards and porch pianos
seek comfort in upkeep wasps beyond the ladder’s reach a sliver of soap on the edge of the sink the glitter of glass shards beneath a broom
picture yourself covered in leaves pockets emptied of matchbooks and coins limbs no longer hinged for gait far from the grasp of hasty plans
photo by Samantha Malay, Seattle, Washington, 1991
Loose ends, my brother and sister and I emerged from tree-canopy and Oregon rain to stay in a noisy house in Kettle Falls. We’d lived without faucets or refrigerators but knew the names of many plants and how to detect thunder on the horizon.
The three of us ate grocery store chicken and bean salad on a TV tray and watched shows we’d never seen before, tight polyester pants and laugh tracks and deodorant ads. The livingroom was separated from the murky kitchen by a grey metal tool shelf cluttered with jars of root-water spider plants and dust. Pans sat abandoned in the sink, a greasy dishtowel shoved through the oven handle. Stacks of mail crowded car keys and a pair of nail clippers on the counter. Joke books floundered on the toilet tank. The sprinkler ran until the lawn was a swamp. At first it felt like a dangerous vacation.
Across the street from a cemetery, 665 Kalmia Street was full of belongings and furniture in uncomfortable relationships, as if people had moved in and weren’t finished unpacking, or were just about to move out. Mom lived there with her boyfriend Jerry and his two sons, Tom and Bruce, high school seniors, a grade skipped or failed by one or the other, who couldn’t have resembled each other less if they’d been unrelated. Bruce had frizzy hair like his girlfriend. Barely six years older, they looked at me from the land of adults, where candlewax covered nightstands and albums were stacked against walls. Ashtrays were filled, bottles were emptied, then slowly filled again with discarded coins.
Sheila slept on a window seat near the wall phone under paper curtains printed with blue and purple hydrangeas. I had the floor of the broom closet off the kitchen. Maybe Ben got the couch. We kept our clothes in a cardboard box.
My new classmates incubated chicken eggs. We broke the shell of the unhatched one, saw a fully-formed creature, wet feathers, closed eyes, feet and legs curled.
On the last day of school, water balloons soaked our shirts and jeans. I sat on a log with my friends at the edge of the playground, where the field met the parking lot. I wrote letters to them that summer, when we returned to the cabin. I tried to feather my hair in the reflection on the porch window, but it had grown too long, so I went back to barrettes.
Our family unraveled, in time measured in maps and missing report cards and not enough money for stamps.
