Altar
by Samantha Malay
published June 1, 2019 in Blood Tree Literature
https://www.bloodtreeliterature.com/poetryi5?author=5ce47ea1456b8f0001589f5b
count the days
and bones beneath your shirt
when berries of the mountain ash
line the empty pond
trace the knot in the wood
where the branch used to be
scrape the jar
yield to winter
Hollow
by Samantha Malay
published in Quiddity: International Literary Journal and Public Radio Program
http://quidditylit.org/issue-11-2/smalay/
in a car the color of an ocean map
on a circular road that led south to north
we stopped at a house near a dead-end street
where we sat on the floor
in sun-bleached clothes
we can’t get our bearings
with our backs to the mountain
and the horizon holds only what we don’t want here
roll up your sleeping bag
tie your shoes in the dark
we’ll cup water in gas stations
between night and day
Adrift
by Samantha Malay
published in Quiddity: International Literary Journal & Public Radio Program
http://quidditylit.org/issue-11-2/smalay/
I drink coffee from a styrofoam cup
lift our bags into the trunk
pull a map from the glovebox.
It’s so early most of the truckers haven’t left yet.
I can see you in the motel office
and I can see the corner of an orange bedspread
on the floor of one room because the door is standing open
letting bright hazy light in.
A housekeeping cart is parked outside
and what was ours will soon belong to someone else.
Harvest
by Samantha Malay
published in Sheila-Na-Gig, volume 3.2, Winter 2018
https://sheilanagigblog.com/
back out of the driveway
windows rolled down
a map of each room in your mind
we are equal parts empty and full
together and alone
the space between the beads and the string
open the envelope
it holds more than words
seeds unsuited to our season of drought
promises of peaches and plums
from branches grafted to a single trunk
keep your horse from the quarry ridge
eat peas from dried vines
crouch in the shallows with creekwater mint
you are rootless and lucky for now
Field Study
by Samantha Malay
published in Sheila-Na-Gig, volume 3.2, Winter 2018
https://sheilanagigblog.com/
reprinted in The Path of Birds: Poets on the Rise (Flying Ketchup Press 2023)
ISBN-13 978-1970151404
Could you see the shape of here from there
as you rode your bike along the shore
the summer you turned twelve?
feasts of gleaned fruit
a place to sleep between the trees
and water in the ditch
Did you trade mystery for certainty
one night around the dinner table
or some dawn
in the fishtank glow
of a livingroom on Orchard Street?
beneath the baby’s blanket
we found thistles in the grass
and upturned nails
Did birds fly near
when you circled home
and stood in the unlit kitchen?
with a lack of ritual
we held your hands
and knew no words to harbor you
Tacoma Snapshot
by Samantha Malay
semi-finalist in Alexandria Quarterly’s 2018 End of Summer Poem Contest
http://www.alexandriaquarterlymag.com/samantha-malay/
It was probably an ordinary day for us
walking through empty parking lots
ringed with horsetail plants and blackberry thorns
to my grandparents’ house
as late afternoon slipped into evening
the lawn sprinkler-wet
and the cement birdbath dark
against the gold rectangle of the kitchen window
but I see whole summers inside those hours
feet dandelion-sticky on warm linoleum
a spoon from each stripe of Neapolitan ice cream
while water fills the bathtub
unread letters on the diningroom table
the hinge of a screen door
alley dust
Home School
by Samantha Malay
published in The Sea Letter, Summer 2018
Home School
It was dark when we left the cabin that morning, cool enough against the seat of the truck to make us wish we hadn’t worn cut-offs.
We read old paperbacks in the Colville laundromat and stared at the bottles of orange and grape soda sweating inside the coin machine. Abandoned socks, religious pamphlets and handwritten notes selling firewood and hay and horse feed were thumbtacked to a bulletin board. Sunbleached Ladies Home Journal magazines showed recipes for making two weeks of dinners from one night of cooking, colorful photos of cakes and pies.
Marigolds wilted against the brick walls of the bank, the hot sidewalk white and glittering.
We ate soft-serve ice cream in wafer cones at the back of the dime store, fragrant with coffee, linoleum floor wax and doll parts. Model train scenery made of foam and wood mingled with colored pipe cleaners, embroidery thread, plastic flowers and birdcages.
Counting food stamps under Safeway’s fluorescent lights, we filled our cart with ingredients: powdered milk, flour, sugar, oatmeal, Crisco, margarine, peanut butter, sorghum syrup, canned mackerel, sardines, peas and green beans. Free puppies squirmed in a cardboard box at the edge of the parking lot.
Hours at the city swimming pool left us sunburned, hair soaked with chlorine.
Windows rolled down, we smelled alfalfa fields. The sun set over the fairgrounds, and the lavender sky flattened against darkening mountains. Mailboxes and fence lines were visible only by headlight. Paved road met gravel road, then dirt.
My father’s college biology books explained the mysteries of sweet pea pollination, dominant and recessive traits, mutation. One page featured a two-headed calf.
We picked up free seeds at the Extension Service office. Instructions with line drawings showed how to plant, mulch, water, harvest, and avoid crop theft.
The summer Mom left we drove to Northport for Popsicles.
Separating two, we had four symmetrical pieces.
We kept moving, and moving apart.
Tree Line
by Samantha Malay
published in Sky Island Journal, Issue 3, Winter 2018
https://www.skyislandjournal.com/issues#/issue-3-winter-2018/
We swam in the river behind the field,
towels flattened on summer-warm sand.
The water was the color of oysters,
and there was a ribbon of light at the base of the mountain
as blue dusk crept along the tree line.
She pulled cigarettes from her purse, wet hair against dry T-shirt.
I thought her words held secrets.
Guessing our way in the dark, a porch light flickered on.
It was the night before the first day of school.
She shaved her legs in the bathtub while I sat on the floor,
listening to her boyfriend plans.
She dried her hair with a round brush, applied frosty pink eye shadow.
I had moved from a bigger town but she was deliberate where I was unsure.
My brother and sister and I lived across the road that led the logging trucks
and school buses into Deming, under the power lines.
One parent was gone and the other disappeared in the dim corners of our rented house.
We washed our clothes in a utility sink and hung them to dry in the barn,
frozen shards when winter approached.
A gallon of milk spoiled in the refrigerator,
and the icy air smelled like cardboard and coffee
and an accumulation of common sorrows.
Refrain
by Samantha Malay
published in Burningword Literary Journal, issue 84, October 2017
https://burningword.com/tag/84/
In smoke-scented, threadbare coats
they’d walked through frozen fields and empty streets
toward whispers of work and pickles, fresh bread and fish,
an address in a port city, yellow flowers at the base of a mountain.
See the curve of her cheek as she turns from the pier,
seagulls loud in the charcoal sky.
They’d dreamt of fruit trees and a food grinder for the new baby.
Between tanks of tropical fish, he eats a sandwich at his workbench
in the hazy pungent air.
Short sleeves show Navy tattoos, the arms of a tinkerer, an appliance repairman.
Branches heavy with plums obscure the potholed alley.
Doorbell. Cars on Orchard Street. A neighbor’s sprinkler.
Turn the radio on.
Were they led by bravery or hunger?
The men who knew him then turn to each other now.
Signal and refrain.
Lament, 1971
by Samantha Malay
published in Burningword Literary Journal, issue 84, October 2017
https://burningword.com/tag/84/
Put your feet in the creek,
sit next to me in the shade.
Do our voices idle between the books and clothes and dishes we left behind?
Unlock the secrets of the language we used to speak.
Hold on, even as meaning unravels.
Laundry swings on a clothesline, blocks out the sun. There is a storm coming.
Keep still.
We make a circle, five of us, like fingers on a hand.
Bees swarm where the faucet drips.
Pull away, baby boy, from the gestures we inherit.
samanthamalay.com 