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In the Sitter's Home
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In the sitter’s home
our tiptoes rub of
eraser shedding pink. Reaching for
the tetanus squeaking mirror
cabinet that swings open for
Rylee, Tosha, and me to raid. Those
chalky Flintstone vitamins. As if they
are candy to be eaten. In the clawfoot tub
where we shove as many
into our mouths till
the chalky coating
makes one of our throats
tickle a cough. Till,
a spot of a shadow
grows slender tall and
draws back the
white curtain of
found.
~ ~ ~
First was supposedly Tosha as
my brother, Nickolas, wants her to count to fifty
so, he can hide with both Rylee
and me next. Hiding spot Rylee said
is one we are not supposed to hide in
but if we are careful and leave it
exactly how we found it. It is a closet attached to
Rylee's stepdad’s “man cave” which locks from
the inside.
~ ~ ~
Insides.
My insides. Hot
dryer spins of breath felt
red carpet scratching between toes
of curled up box-turtle shell heads. Heads of deer
laystuffed, here, of once
living charcoal blinking eyes
that might blink if I look away. Away is the blood
of their veins. My veins
vein of warm blood’s scent
as my right hand
cut from antler.
~ ~ ~
I want to touch of transfusion
as if to sayshare
blood of the newly found.
I am sorry.
As their hide could not hide. Hide that
hides hung
in the forest closet of
ties, blue-buttoned shirts, and slack pants.
~ ~ ~
Patterned sights of
familiar descendants
yet unfamiliar
when the lights go off
and my little brother is the one
telling me to stay silent. Silence
the oblique artisan canvas of
footsteps of door cracked
shadows.
~ ~ ~
Shoulder the closet walls
as I jerk for the thin beaded string
strung of taunt for the one
they call scared. Found is what
they found. Of something else
I have not before. Fear’s
body as it isn’t
the one here. Here
the body of another. Something
that guesses whether
my stained blood
on the carpet will be
enough sacrifice
for Rylee’s parents.
~ ~ ~
Not that of my own
blood. Adopted blood of space
not that
of mine to theirs
is the same in both places
of house
if the stain doesn’t
come out.
~ ~ ~
Says Rylee’s mother
as she already has a
warm white towel
in hand. For
my hand not
for the carpet.
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I wanted to express my earliest recollection of anxiety as a kid and what that looked like in spaces. I remembered knowing it was more than just being scared as the spaces compress and the sensory elements are what remains in this little universe of time.
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Olivia Knoedler is a senior studying Mass Communications with a Creative Writing minor. Her interests include eating chips as if they were a full meal, watching Bob's Burgers, writing poems, accidentally telling dark humor jokes in front of her grandma on the holidays, eating chili just to get a stain on her shirt, and is a night owl by heart. Recently, she has gotten into Japanese Jazz fusion.
She wants to give a special thanks out to Professor Kryah for providing a safe space that allows student to create meaningful and vulnerable work. The poem above is one just one of several he has opened his offices doors to discuss.
Jiro Inagaki & Soul Media - Funky Stuff (1975) - YouTube
