To The Unnoticed by Mara Cregan

To The Unnoticed

Maya Best

2 Â Â

Every thing carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. -Pablo Neruda

Table of Contents To Taxidermy

To The Birds on the Telephone Wire

To Insomnia

To The Dial Tone

To The Wasp Nest Dollhouse

To Dried Watermelon

To Sofa Threads

To Ragweed

To Oranges

To Magritte

To Cicada Husks

To Bloody Knees

To The Microwave

To Spoons

To Sidewalk Cracks

To Spring

To God

To The Waves That Carried His Body

To Taxidermy Surrounded by flesh and furs, frozen pairs of eyes, I forget which is dead and which alive. Maybe I’m too distracted by the stripes on his sweater, his arms too long for the sleeves. Taxidermy speaks through the walls of bottled insects, solidified antennae and crystalized canines. One of his shoes is untied, threads trailing down the steps. We are lost between the feathers, hollowed beaks dying to sing but muted. “Why are their souls put on display?” He asks. There’s a hole in his pocket, boney fingers dangling out. He’s staring into frozen time. Legs once climbing, feathers flying in cleaner skies. Taxidermy speaks through his eyes until we push past revolving doors, escaping into the air where souls roam free.

5 Â Â

To the Birds on the Telephone Wire There is no place like this. Each house paints memories of a time that flashes like strange dreams through my mind. No flowers grow here, only stalks of grass like endless baby hairs. Swings squirm in their chains from the whispering wind and the silent bell tower no longer seems like a gentle giant from above. I wonder how ten years went by before my gentle oak lost its head to the ax. I used to count the clouds, pumping my knees and you formed music note silhouettes from your perch on that telephone wire fastened to wooden posts, tattooed in bubble gum wads and missing flyers. I used to follow the rabbits, swing till the bees began to trust my magic wings, search for the source of cicada chirps. The frogs only sang at night after fireflies took the skies and sticky hands melted together. Sometimes I hoped youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d stay in the winter, never fly south and leave the wire lonely without your cawing company.

There was a nest in the corner of our rooftop, cushioned in the space between the tiles and you passed each day, flying shadow puppets of the sky, swooping to send worms down greedy chirping beaks. You were the morning messengers—singing sunshine into bedroom windows, July’s dancing kites on the wind, October caws against cloudy skies. December’s telephone wires would be tuneless, frozen still with the snow. You’d be living it up under Florida sun while I trudged past tuneless empty trees.

To Insomnia A pantoum

Yesterday you drank coffee through a straw for dinner. I think your eyes were blinded by the ghost of night, dancing in your drowsiness. For dinner we had deviled eggs arranged along porcelain platters, but you dreamt of the dancing drowsiness of night while we dug at the yolks with our spoons. You dreamt of deviled eggs arranged along porcelain platters like mother’s jewelry box of tarnished earrings while we dug at the yolks with our spoons, searching for sleep for you. Mother’s jewelry box of tarnished earrings, of misplaced, mismatched dreams. We searched for sleep for you beneath the floral tablecloth. Misplaced, mismatched dreams when yesterday you drank coffee through a straw beneath the floral tablecloth. I think your eyes were blinded by ghosts.

To The Dial Tone My grandmother won’t see him for another two years, twenty-four months, seven-hundred-and-thirty-one days. She’ll punch numbers into your torso for hours, fingers bent the wrong way, and pray to hear his voice before it disappears from her mind. You smell of the lotion on her fingers, your body wearing her imprints of worry. She’s nearly forgotten her son’s face. Some days she falls asleep with you pressed to her cheek, batteries gasping last breaths before death. You ride in the pouch of her walker, wait while she chews buttered toast and squints into Post Gazettes at the dining table. You listen to the flush of her toilet, the rinsing of wrinkled fingers under running water. He calls once a day, 5:30 p.m. while

she’s snoozing in her recliner. He calls just before the sun dissolves into Van Gogh watercolors, before she forgets the last line she just wrote in that battered spiral bound notebook. But when he finally calls she’ll never forget his voice, like a breath of mist on window panes.

To The Wasp Nest Dollhouse Thank you for seven swollen stings. Thank you for Elmo Band Aids, Daddy kissing each swollen lump as he read Frog and Toad under the shading oak, rocking paining knees to the breath of his words. Outside, I reached through outstretched doors, chubby thumbs naïve, craving one touch of pink and blue, one poke through plastic windows. You crafted my miniature kitchen into a hive, lining refrigerators in honey. I never knew you dissected bumblebees, carried praying mantises between your legs, and searched for skin to sting. I only thought your wings were like cracked glass, your fur soft as teddy bears. But when I touched you, bumped your nest with my elbow, you stabbed me in venomous quills, leaving me bruised in reminders of the house that I’d stolen from you.

To Dried Watermelon My mother strains your sweat in the kitchen sieve, enough perspiration to feed panting dogs. She places your shriveled body on the cutting board, wrinkled like old folk’s fingers. You are like bacon un-striped, pink fleshy gums, and newborn baby’s feet. She covers your torso in plastic saran wrap, closing your seeded eyes beneath the film. Yesterday you stuck to the crows of my teeth, lay lethargic in ceramic bowls. You are a strange kind of fruit. You’ve formed the wildest shapes, lumpy rolling hills of your fossilized life. You are an artifact, frozen time solidified. My mother serves your limbs for dessert, but I slip you under tablecloths at the turn of her back for the kitty to enjoy.

To Sofa Threads I find you weeping in the lounge, disheveled threads hanging about your face. You’re looking a little green today. Your stuffing’s dripping onto hallway tiles like snot. I think you’ve got a nosebleed. Couch crumbs spring from your ribbed limbs, exposing woody bones. You cry out in pain as I lean on your face, swing my legs over your left arm. I offer to stitch up your wounds, wrap fabric scraps over exposed scars. We are usually inseparable after I’ve dusted your cushion and swept the floor below your feet, but today you don’t want me. I want to push the threads from your sour cheeks until you’ll escape your sullen state and call my name again.

To Ragweed The woman next door hangs ragweed like roses from her windows. They dangle from the dining room, curled into curves of the chandelier like mistletoe. There are petals in my water glass and we sit under stems, folding napkins over knees. She’s embroidered ragweed on the tablecloth, bright as egg yolks. I forgot my handkerchief today. The hairs in her nostrils never fear ragweed leaves. She wraps ragweed ‘round her wrists, in the nape of her neck like perfume. It’s allergy season and she serves me soup, drizzling ragweed cloves into my spoon. “Have a taste,” she says. Her breath smells of ragweed. I forgot my handkerchief today. The broth burns my tongue. Water seeps down my cheeks. My shaky knees bump table legs and finally I sneeze.

To Oranges 1. Today you are enveloped in auburn robes, rounded and rolling, you’ve got a bruise on your hip. Yesterday I tossed you up to the ceiling lights, but you fell smack on the ground. Oh how many concussions you’ve suffered. 2. We peeled till our thumbs and tongues were stained in orange sweat. Daddy twirled you in his palms, pulling orange strands into fleshy rings. I lined your pieces on the windowsill where they sat for a week till the birds came with beaks, scattering your clothes through the yard. 3. You must feel so exposed without your skin. Broken and pale, your innards displayed in spider web silks. 4. I’d like to make a pumpkin out of you. Carve and scoop your flesh into a jack-o-lantern. Halloween oranges on sale.

15 Â Â

5. I undress you during lunch, splitting you into pieces, and place your garments in the compost bin to dream with apple cores and banana peels. 6. An orange once fell under a bridge and into the sea. It balanced over waves and landed on the beach. This orange had never slept in the sand or felt the summer heat without shelter from shaded leaves, dangling it from orange trees.

To Magritte An ekphrastic poem in response to Rene Magritte’s “The Portrait”

Take me to your kitchen where toast is crafted from concrete squares, where you slice Romneya poppies into eggs with the tips of your sewing scissors. Take me, Magritte, to the pantry where you top ice cream cones in fluorescent light bulbs, form cheese with dry sponges, and sliver earthworms into spaghetti. Tell me about apples who wear sunglasses and read newspapers, French fries who tap dance on rooftops, cupcakes who watch reality TV in queen sized beds. Magritte, the ham molded into the moon bares a soul, but the eye never blinks. It would surely win this staring contest. The knife and fork stand perfectly aligned (Spoon took a vacation). You serve me, Magritte and I slouch on your table, My back pressed to the window as I take a sip from your bottle, a hooded figure full of midnight liquid. I pucker my lips at my reflection in the water glass and finger the ham, poking its eye with the tip of my knife. but only you can see me, Magritte and you dream of me while you sleep. Imagine the teeth marks in your ham,

17 Â Â

the lipsticks stains on the glass, the eye disappearing between my lips.

To Cicada Husks I wonder why you sprawl scattered in the grass every August like freshly slaughtered fish, stunned and still, your gills are on fire. You’ve left me shells from a previous life, abandoned skins, superfluous accessories. Night is your ensemble of hissing soliloquies to the trees. You were singing when the phone rang, when we sat behind closed doors, making shadows with our hands. You crawled across my callused palms, tickling skin with stained glass wings. I think we sprinkled pistachios behind radiators, drizzled drinks over sofa cushions, wrapped away the summer in woolen blankets. You sang the last breaths of fireflies, of muddy bare feet and dandelion seeds. I wonder why you’ve dried into listless crusts, cracking with pine cones and shed leaves. We used to count your corpses on the trees, close our eyes under moonlit autumn skies till your final songs lulled us to sleep.

To Bloody Knees An epistolary poem

Dear Daddy, it’s summer and you crawl on legs made of wire, spin your snowflake webs, and sit on my windowsill, drinking up the remains of yesterday’s sunshine. Each day we hold a new staring contest, those eight holly berry eyes never ceasing to win. The window is your ocean, the sky the only face to greet each day. You’ve left me a present—the fruit fly daintily packaged in your spit. Don’t worry, Daddy, I didn’t tell the maid with her brooms and thumbs for killing. It’s still raining and your vision must be blurred on that dusty sill behind the glass. Today I slipped in the mud, my sneakers corroded in mucky filth, and Daddy, my knees were dripping like popsicles under the sun. Mother kissed them with SpongeBob Band-Aids, wiped the sneakers clean of my tears. The new pair squeaks against tile floors, and I wish I knew how to traipse in silence like you. Daddy, I’m sorry for your crumpled house, it’s broken strands, the only exhibit of your work. I see the creases on your face, the sag of your eight shoulders. Don’t worry,

I’ll craft you a new home fresh with dandelion stems and a roof stacked with pinecones. Then you’ll stay here forever, right? I wonder, Daddy, do you ever dream? Dream of your brothers, step aunts, first cousins twice removed? Tonight I’ll dream of your delicate strands stretching through my wallpaper, the transparent strings plucking like harps at your every step. There’ll be flies cushioned between each crack so you never feel small with your belly that full. And when I awake to the stroke of mother’s fingers, I’ll drift to the windowsill, slide my palm against its paint— bare and naked without your webs— and you’ll be gone.

To the Microwave An object speaks poem

"Do you love me?" asks the microwave. She's blushing red hues again, buzzing vibrations when she sees me. She's beeping loudly from the kitchen counter, every whir of heat, of mad love for me. She’s a slave to my fingers. Every button I press, she opens up to me. Yesterday, I made her cry, tomato sauce splattering her insides. She’s afraid of aluminum foil touching her eyes. “Your spaghetti is ready,” she says. She’s quiet when I pull open her door. She watches waiting while I twirl my fork, pucker my lips in her glass, wiping away stained cheeks. I’m a messy eater but she likes that. “You’ve got a little something on your chin,” she tells me.

She’s jealous when I feed the dishes to the sink, rinse their faces, lean them up to dry. She looks away every time I walk by. When I flick off kitchen lights, she glows red in a lonely mask, wishing I’d kiss her goodnight. But I don’t. She’s afraid of the dark, dreams of stubbed toes and earlobes, sticky hands hugging her tight. She wonders what it’d feel like to brush yellow teeth, slip on shower caps and tumble into cozy sheets. She counts my footsteps on the stairs, sings secret songs when she thinks I’m fast asleep. “Will you think of me?” asks the microwave. She’s a wide-eyed insomniac, counting each hour till I’ll wake up and accept her tokens of love.

To Spoons I think I am in love with the sound of clanking dining ware, spoons scraping shrieks against ceramic plates. I think I am in love with ice cream cones, with mud stained bare feet. Each day I develop a new infatuation: the waitress’s impatient chipping nails, the raindrops glued to school bus windows, the sound of dry leaves under boots. Yesterday’s spoons lie waiting in the sink, wearing soup stains for dresses, milk spots soaking in the curves of their heads. From the kitchen, I count bricks on the house across the street. They are exact copies of their neighbors, yet I admire their simple frames. Tonight the cutlery rides the dishwasher after lazing for days unattended. I could listen to those vibrations for hours water gurgling, cups jiggling inside the machine. My spoon is always wasted, lonely waiting on the straws of my tablemat. After dinner, I am obsessed with doorknobs, squeaky chairs, and wobbly knees. I count foggy glass fingerprints in the bathroom mirror and wait for toothpaste to leave

minty stains on my tongue. Perhaps tomorrow, lonely again I will find company in the arms of a dusty rocking chair, surrounded by disregarded and unused spoons. If not, I will find something else to love.

To Sidewalk Cracks We have skipped for far too long, avoiding flaming concrete slits and trampled gum wads. We’ve slipped pennies into soggy sewers, stained the soles of our shoes in manure. I used to be afraid of you. You climbed to the tops of trees with bare feet, caught crayfish from the creek. You never washed your hands, leaving muddy imprints on the tablecloth. You crawled through poison ivy, pockets filled with sewing needles, pointy tips sprouting porcupine quills through denim pockets. You drew Sharpie mustaches on Barbie dolls, unstuffed teddy bears until I cried and then you’d wash their faces clean and stitch up sorry wounds. Once you pushed me high and I fell from the top of squeaky swings, landing in woody chips, but then you pulled me up, wiping away my splintered tears and I never told on you.

To Spring A Larry Levis imitation poem

1. Some say a robin’s shriek are the first words of spring, no more than Baby’s cackle on March 21st as she knocks the applesauce from my hands. She’s lost one of her rain boots again; the one shaded in ladybugs like the kinds that threw parties on the windows of that old cathedral down the street. Father used to say that ghosts probably went there to worship the spiders hugging cracks between the walls. There’s nothing there now, save a lonely organ, playing tunes to itself under the crucifix. I remember when my father used to stare through ageing eyes as he stood in that doorway watching the boys hurl stones at the robins, their pleading croaks the final breaths of spring. That was no place to pray. 2. On rainy days, Baby leaps into puddles, droplets splattering her cheeks. There’s a pout painted onto her lips as she drags her feet to the bus stop. and when I reach for her hand to cross the street, she pulls away. “I’m too old for holding hands, Daddy!”

3. Never question the silence of things, the way the leaves swirl down tornado waves to reach the ground, or how the past seems to melt into photographs of you. I remember when we used to jump into conversations. There was never a frown on that porcelain face, Baby. But now, your teeth are zipped in secrets you’ve kept from me. I'm lost in the makeup you slap onto your eyes. Whatever happened to that baby who used to wail all night, who never knew the meaning of silence? 4. The streets in this city are crawling in bodies that dream in the doorways of these empty shops. I used to fear the darkness of those stretching alleyways sprinkled in cigarettes, but recently I’ve barely even paid attention to the socks on my feet, mismatched. I’ve forgotten the feel of your hair, your whisper through the telephone, all those nights you would phone, your voice trying hard not to quiver. Sometimes when I walk through these streets, treading upon the footsteps of millions, I can hear you in the throats of birds, and I remember how we used to play, how you would dance through these streets and I never seemed to notice the sullen sky, or the problems in this world.

To God My God drinks coffee, collects FoxTrot comic strips, sobs over newspaper headlines. My God is an insomniac. He wears ripped baggy jeans, wishes on dandelion seeds and never crosses sidewalk cracks. My God doesn’t care who loves who, as long as there’s love. He sometimes forgets to tie his shoes. My God never posts on Facebook or looks in the mirror, self-conscious of his over displayed portrait, distorted and edited to hang upon walls. My God is faceless, pets black cats that cross his path, and dresses up for Halloween. He doesn’t have a best friend— he is friends with everything. My God has dark rings below his eyes from reading Beat poetry late at night. He squints to read street signs, catches snowflakes on his tongue, and roasts marshmallows in the flames of his hands. My God is in love with the moon. My God hugs through

29 Â Â

mother arms, swats away looming clouds with thick thumbs. He tries to save spiders from water spouts, grow fruits from his fingers for every hungry child. My God is afraid of guns. He likes to hide underground, swim with the fish and clean polluted seas. My God collects bodies from the streets, immune to the smell of blood. My God sometimes cries.

To The Waves That Carried His Body In response to the Syrian Refugee Crisis

Somewhere an umbrella is crying for rain under cloudless skies where currents lick feet, sucking them in. A woman fell to her knees when she found his body glued to the sand, sagging shorts stuck to his thighs. The coins from his pockets flowed into the sea, arms of water blanketing the baby’s body. These waves carry children’s corpses between their fingers, floating them onto exposed shores. He came from the land of the scattered and scrambling, where weaponry divides families till countries push away refugees. He toppled from a boat, motherless, father clutching soggy strands of his hair, breathing for children no longer there. The waves pulled the boy away, pushing him down like fallen pebbles, floating him onto the shore for all to see.

Poetic Influences Larry Levis Sandra Beasley Pablo Neruda Ai Maya Angelou Mr. Harris