Two Poems by ckSlack

"She Calls Me Civetta" and "Stitched in Solitude"

Photo by Frances Gunn

She Calls Me Civetta
 
Her love is not loud, but beckons, as hot skies hang 
weighted in July. Across the Ohio border, roads tangle 
with gravel beneath tires, clatterpinging against wheel wells. 
After climbing steep switchbacks, she will hold my hand 
at twilight, walking back acres along the creek, narrating
her land spirit. Crank up the car windows as dust streams
from the station wagon’s belly. We will find textures
of ancient marine life within Indiana limestone: Trilobites 
and Brachiopods, outlining each baffling skeleton
with our fingers. Whiffs of sweet, sunbaked hay mix 
with billows of metallic dust. One more turn to go, past 
weathered signs—Hilltop Farm, AKC Registered Collies. 
The swollen hill captivates, barely wide enough. Gritty 
rocks tumble left, as the car interior dapples darker under 
canopies of unspoiled trees. We will sit on scratchy woolen 
plaid blankets, tenderly shy, absorbing her sentience. No relief, 
sticking to my seat in pastel seersucker shorts. Until 
the very last bend, back wheel of the car slips, heart thumps 
right in my throat, sunshine strobes at the clearing, statuesque 
corn on one side, red brick farmhouse ahead. At the crest 
of the hill, long armed iron gates and a last hand-painted 
board that says Honk, igniting a chorus of barking and high-pitched 
yelps. Streaks of gold and white, black and white, behind gates 
that drag dirt in an arc, bolted onto worn gray barns. 
We come to the altar and will linger until lightening bugs hover, 
streaming Milky Way beams on us. Rolling down windows 
as freshly cut grass jumps in my nose, reaching hands 
to wave hello. Counting all life as a gathering of gifts
—her constant canon like moon crescents gold. These 
are all God’s creatures. Gossip with breeze, leave apples 
where they fall, at dawn, the deer come.



Stitched in Solitude

I reach around to peel layers of hot sewn patchwork morphing. Husk tailored to each acquaintance unique, seemingly unending, blistering bubbling fabric drapes over stuck skin. Kaleidoscope threads clamor. Collar and yoke ornate with buttons of bone weigh down to paralyze muscles stretched. Thin sheath varnished chokes connecting and expanding, pulls out lingering gasps from the lungs. Sigh capes ceaseless lament. Vast inner pockets brush steel wool to satin flesh. Scars and scabs designed to be hidden and quiet become shifty and daring blow away then return in night through inflexible cobalt seams. Cloaked, frayed hemmed edges surrender. Torment sirens my solitary robe to bolt and release stoking this hateful pattern. Ashamed to reveal smoky familiar membranes, encased years unfurl as it envelops, fitting into cavernous holes. Grief pushes me small. 

ckSlack currently lives in Pittsburgh, PA and began writing through her journals as a young woman with a life-long love of words, nature and Thanksgiving dinner with her family. She is influenced by Renaissance and Surrealist art and inspired by classical and alternative music.