Conversations from Luquillo to Boston, Following the Wrong Dog Home

By KELLI ALLEN 

Fair roof, dripping hall—these are names for sky where there should be only helmets left in the sand. We waste words mapping distance from one church to another, when religiosity is Fenrir in the north, and fresh birthed inkings, rooted in south sea brine. This is the way with us: Pythagorean stubbornness while we square the same four city blocks and discuss, too fast, our respective shames, walnuts quick meeting fire, and our first model ships.

You told me a story twice—once after collapsing against rough surf, and again while squinting into your first raw oyster. I learned both times that Vasilisa pulled up her hood and the rain came anyway and there is nothing too affected when staring hard, looking up through thick lashes. My answers to your questions were the same, too. Listening to Shuman propels all cattle directly into foam every time they get a craving for salt. Local fishermen near Luquillo assured us that hooves carry the beasts just fine over dune or mud. These men told us, in a round something like folksong, that the seaweed populating a wake is called mane of the field. At this, you collected a razor clam as it tunneled down and offered the pearlescent shell in an open palm.

This is the way Cézanne asks us to drown.

On the plane you close your eyes and change everything. I won’t tell you how to skewer a raspberry to keep it whole, and you won’t look at my mouth and remember that you might have fallen hard if we had stayed quiet longer.

It’s alright that you do not wake when I remove the bone pin from your cloak. What sets us apart, like Archimedes, is the way we assert ourselves in each city, our occupation remains only to firm fit one set of fingers over another, anchors locked in oak and lapis, to signal, eventually, we are already away.

 

Kelli Allen’s full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, arrived from John Gosslee Books in 2012 and was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. Her latest book, Imagine Not Drowning, will be released from C&R Press in January.

Photo by Jonathan Veguilla from Flickr Creative Commons

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

Conversations from Luquillo to Boston, Following the Wrong Dog Home

Related Posts

Baileys Harbor Shoreline

On the Shores of Baileys Harbor

BEN TAMBURRI
The beaches of Baileys Harbor are for birds, too pebbly and coarse to relax on. The water is cold, and the waves break at your ankles.

Two children kneel on a large rock surface, large grey boulders and a forest of trees visible in the distance.

The Garden of the Gods

ELI RODRIGUEZ FIELDER
The gods must have been giant children squeezing drip sandcastles from their palms, back when this land was at the edge of a sea. This used to be a mouth, I say. It feels impossible that this peculiar landscape should suddenly emerge among farms and Dairy Queens.

Long wooden table with chairs. Plants in the background.

Four Ways of Setting the Table

CLARA CHIU
We are holding the edges of the fabric, / throwing the center into the air. / & even in dusk this cloth / billowing over our heads / makes a souvenir of home: / mother & child in snowglobe. / Yet we are warm here, beneath / this dome, & what light slips through / drapes the dining room white.