Overlook Kentucky

By RACHEL DANIELLE PETERSON

Dayton, Ohio 1984
Sie reinigen sich mit Feuer.
“They cleanse themselves with fire.”
 
Sometimes, it turns up ta Mama in polyester,
Those invisibles then or otherwise who kin
read her face, mine. Him, callin’ fer Yvonne.
 
Hey Yvonne! The memoree of some stranger
his shoulder’s shadow plunges inta our place:
thunk, thunk. Run! Mother’s vowels pierce haze.
 
Mother, can we distil the pink threads, fabric,
black ball cap, the odor of Bud Light, fills the door
she walks through, dust, Mamma. Dust is all we is
 
the knock leads inta porch, cement on bare feet,
only a stuffed Bambi knows lips open in prayer
ta a vengeful gawd while another immaculate sun spills
 
towards another dawn. Somehow, this small pulse
will tense up quite at any doctor too too close ‘ta throat,
toes, all me then blurree, before he gives me paired spectacles.
 
Whut will linger on, or be charred like barbecue,
tastes I still savor? Wracked on coals, memorees remind us
of shame an’ need. Seen, unseen, even gloree can sting.
 

Rachel Danielle Peterson was born in Harlan, Kentucky. She holds an MA in religious studies as well as an MFA in poetry. Peterson is a contributing editor at Poets’ Quarterly, a member of VIDA, and a Vermont Studio Center Residency Fellow. She is also a teacher, writer, and speaker who has traveled around most of the United States as well as the world. Her work has been featured in Arsenic Lobster, The Common, Front Porch, Her Royal Majesty, Literary Imagination, The Inspirer, The Los Angeles Review, Midwestern Gothic, Revolver, Upstart, and elsewhere. A Girl’s a Gun, her first book of poetry, was selected for the 2017 University Press of Kentucky’s New Poetry and Prose Series, judged by Lisa Williams, and was published last November.
 
[Purchase Issue 16 here.]

Overlook Kentucky

Related Posts

Image of an orange cupped in a hand

May 2023 Poetry Feature: New Poems by Our Contributors

TIMOTHY DONNELLY
Thorn-blossom! Tender thing, prone to solitude / like yours truly, don’t get it twisted if I reach out my hand— / it isn’t to pluck you, who are my beacon down this path, but a gesture / of acknowledgment common among my kind. / When the lukewarm breezes nod off

Red Lanterns in Night Sky

On Wariness

MYRONN HARDY
There is rhythm on the pavement. / There is rhythm in small / apartment rooms. / I’m over slicing tomatoes. / I’m over drinking wine. / I’m performing as not to be / deformed     as not / to show what I shouldn’t. / I don’t want to feel everything.

Image of two blank canvases on a white wall

Nina and Frida Enter the Chat

FELICE BELLE
these biddies with their deadbolt backs/ take naps / while i construct/ canvas from corset cast / art does not wait until you are well / what they did not understand—the training was classical / chopin, motherfuckers/ carry on like she some backwater bluesy / least common denominator