Nicole Callihan
From Yesteryear
(3/26) And even if I were.
And even if I were.
If there are 24 hours
in a day
and 6 people in a house,
12 hands to be washed,
and also bodies,
2 of which fall on you,
and a bottle of shampoo,
2 dreams of one man,
one dream
of one man and a woman,
one dream of 2 men,
one dream of my mother,
one dream a crowded bed,
7 birds on a wire,
3 meals per day,
one remaining box
of frozen waffles,
half a jar of peanut butter,
not enough
new razors,
also rain every day,
and I have never been
a pill-popper, so wine,
so wine, so wine,
so cheese, too, and coffee
again, and another day,
another other day
in yesteryear
(to say nothing of work)
and one flew away,
how many birds
are left on the wire?
(4/3) Friday, thunder
and warblers,
and Ella eight
tomorrow,
and mother is okay,
mother is okay
again, mother is
that blackbird flock
in the branches,
is serving
me half her food,
isn’t hungry,
is shaving
her legs,
is a bowl
of plastic lemons,
the canary
in my coalmine,
finch in my gut,
will make it,
is standing
in the dusty gravel
in the shadow
of the barn,
has promised
to return.
Is it already
morning?
The sky seems
to think so.
I hide the knives,
keep them
hidden.
(4/15) Elsewhere,
it snows, a single
perfect chime.
I dream I serve
the girls a can of cream
of celery soup for dinner.
I love you, they say.
Do you? I say.
Yes, they say.
Eat before it gets cold,
I say. The body stands
at the window
searching the clouds.
Is this how
it’s always been?
I rub rose balm
into my lips. The page
gets whiter and whiter.
The body moves
to the other room.
In the mountains,
the winter I was ten
they stuffed my mouth
with a washrag.
A spoon knocks
against a bowl.
Near the birds,
Cody sweeps
the leaves
from the porch.
He doesn’t know
I’m watching.
(4/17) Afternoon.
The little
paper lids
on those hotel
room glasses,
the curtains,
velvetier
than velvet,
so not velvet.
Your daughter
holds a baby
chick, asks
who Lord
is? And who
is Lord?
My girls and I
make a pound
cake, careful
not to slice
our knuckles
with the lemon
grater. How
long until the sky
turns again?
Cynthia says
something about
subway doors.
How good
it felt when
the A-train
was so crowded
I didn’t worry
about falling,
just swayed
my body
into a stranger’s.
Months later,
I lean
my head
on the cold stone
of the wall
of the garage.
(5/10) Turned Sunday.
How to recall
the quickening?
Crown to rump,
the size of a peach,
sprouting hair
and lanugo,
your mouth
forming its roof.
How to remember?
We try to cut
the dough
for Danishes,
but the stale edge
stops us,
the cream cheese
gone moldy.
Waste not,
want not,
mother says,
but here
I have wasted
and still want.
Photo of a photo.
When I was little,
I say. We know,
we know, they say,
but, beyond
the body, what
knowledge
do any of us
really have?
You were in me,
and now,
you’re not.
Beside me,
and now,
you’re not.
O daughters,
come downstairs,
let’s go lie
in the grass.
Let’s have this day.
Let’s let
May be May.
Nicole Callihan’s poems appear in PEN-America, Copper Nickel, Tin House, and American Poetry Review. Her novella, The Couples, was published by Mason Jar Press in summer 2019. Elsewhere, her latest poetry collection, a collaboration with Zoë Ryder White, won the 2019 Sixth Finch Chapbook Prize. Find out more at www.nicolecallihan.com.