I try to replant the sky. Reply to it like the crackling
architecture of autumn. It’s early in the season,
hot as bone. The oven is turned on. I’m afraid of fire,
so volatile. Tonight,
the parents seem smarter
and sadder. I drive
home, the moon covered
in plaque, very
miserly, very shy (I tell you now
I always have been). I cannot write
about Mother, combing out hair
in autumn sun: she is alive and very tense – the arguments
I overhear each morning, Mother and Father
standing in the kitchen like snowstorms. When I was born,
my father misread maps. I felt it was my career,
to live in fear of some sort of divorce. My mother
had no father.
I make up gardens
and seasons. The birdhouse
has been toppled over.
Which is a more empathetic way
of saying it has been destroyed. I claw into walls like an ant. Trim
small steps across
peelings of water. A friend – she is also a poet – tells me
that everybody thinks
in wrongdoings. In recurring dreams,
my grandfather touches my chest
and that’s that. I don’t want to write
another lie. I do anyway.
Loisa Fenichell’s work has been featured or is forthcoming in Guernica Magazine, Poetry Northwest, Tupelo Quarterly, Gordon Square Review, and elsewhere. Her debut collection, “all these urban fields,” was published by nothing to say press. She is an MFA candidate at Saint Mary’s College of California and currently lives in Oakland, CA.