Cull Canyon
A girl drowned here one summer,
and another the summer after that.
This never stopped anyone from jumping
in the water, murky as it was, murky,
like most made things. We liked to think
the bodies were never found, that if we touched
the bottom we ran the risk of brushing
their saturated skin. Once, instead of swimming,
we ventured to the fishing hole, hiking
to the other side through a creek, the wild,
even as we heard trucks dumping fish in the water.
The dead ones floated to the top, made shapes
in their synchronized swim, a kaleidoscope of flesh.
We skimmed them off the surface. We called this fishing.
The Humanification of Things
I.
I didn’t know books had bones, the girl says after learning about spines, and recalls all the backs she broke. What else has a body like mine? When she gets home from school she runs to her closet. The stuffed bears are obviously dead. The coins, rolled and divided in a box, make pleas. She pushes them under the bears. My dresses! Each one stays quiet, hanging, waiting. She taunts the blue corduroy jumper; dances with the pink princess dress from Halloween. They don’t have bodies; they have lives. The books resting on her bedside table catch her eye. She picks up Goodnight Moon. Hello moon! she says as she flays it open, pinning it face down.
II.
They tricked me into liking angles, the woman thinks as she moves the couch 75 degrees in relation to the wall. The room now moves like a trapezoid. Rearranging furniture is applied geometry, she tells the coffee table, explaining why it must move from center to line. What’s wrong with the couch? She inspects the striped-blue fabric. It’s covered in onionskin and my skin and mud from my pants. She pulls off the cover to wash. Hand wash in mild soap. I can live with dirty.
III.
You need to toughen up, she says to the toaster. I’m going to make you a man. She holds it out the window, dangling it by its cord before letting go. The metal casing spits in two, spilling springs and wires along the sidewalk. When her mom gets home she says it was suicide. I tried to talk it down, but it said it just couldn’t spend another day filled with bread. Only the blender knows the truth, and everyone knows blenders are cowards.
IV.
This room is cluttered or empty. She rolls the couch to the kitchen and pulls pillows from the attic. Turning the coffee table on its side, she pushes it vertically against the wall and remembers what it’s like to be against a wall. She breaks off its legs. Don’t scream. The couch is helpless. You must go, she says to the loveseat that’s been quiet all this time, dragging it by the arm and tossing it outside, into the garden. This room is like my garden, she laughs, knowing that’s the most obvious thing to say.
Hot damn! I reported on WiFi Rail back in July 2008 for NPR. Well done!
