Trap Street

By KAREN SKOLFIELD 

“[T]he existence, or non-existence, of a road is a non-copyrightable fact.” —Alexandria Drafting Co. v. Amsterdam (1997) 

Twitch of the cartographer’s hand and a street 
is born, macadam free, a tree-lined absence, 
paved with nothing but a name. No sidewalks, 
no chalk, no children’s voices, 
a fence unlinked from its chains, 
the cars unmoored, corn left to its rubble, 
some wandering mailman, a house unbuilt, 
the bricks unlayed, the mortar unmixed; 
of the things that hold more things together 
the cementitious crumbles on this street, 
the lime breaks from the shale, the shells 
from their marl and clay. On trap streets 
the rules of gravity bend, curve to the mountain 
or fight it, dog leg the impossible angle, 
ribbon the gulley, shimmer from heat, 
unspool. Cliff walk, some miracle mile 
meant only for goats, a meander of cloven hooves, 
a stitching of strip mines, red earth or white,
ground that, once spotted, we call disturbed. 

Karen Skolfield‘s book Battle Dress won the 2020 Massachusetts Book Award in poetry and the Barnard Women Poets Prize. Her book Frost in the Low Areas won the 2014 PEN / New England Award in poetry. Skolfield is a U.S. Army veteran and teaches writing to engineers at the University of Massachusetts Amherst; she’s the poet laureate for Northampton, Massachusetts, for 2019–2022.

[Purchase Issue 21 here.] 

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!

Trap Street

Related Posts

coffee with a spoon

If It Wasn’t for Heroin

AMIYA MORETTA
My Umatilla grandfather / who had one leg, lived down the road, / hobbled to her heroin loyally. / That’s how / my mom and dad, neighbors whose parents / were good friends and fellow addicts, / met as kids, played together / on Frieda Street, those mornings

At night my soul leaves 

KAREN CHASE
up it goes into the stars, for / sustenance. I open / my eyes and pray— / You have returned within me, my / soul with compassion. / Modah ani lefaneka melechai / chai vekayam shehehezarta // I get out of bed, / join the revolution. 

Image of a wooden horse

Trojan Horse

M. B. MCLATCHEY
 It was a gold-seal ruse. A double-/ dealing so sublime the gods ordained / it. Settled into their stadium seats, / they wagered on their favorites. Helen, / the imposter bride, circling and circling  / the gifted horse. / Her Central Casting / lines to the shadows inside.