5 Poems
By Breanna Knight
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I Should Name It.
I should name it, the thing on the steps behind me. I should name it, the thing that makes me shut the blinds before it gets too dark, so as to not see it gazing in when I cross the room. I should name it, the thing that keeps my ankles from dangling off the bed. I should name it. It works hard. It deserves a name. And I’m not sure it’s smart to write this down where someone might see it, but sometimes I want to meet it. I want to know where it comes from. I want to ask it about me, why I’m worth following. Am I more interesting than the other people it could be lurking after or am I just easier? Does it notice the claw marks on the backs of my hands, the first part of me to tinge blue in the winter? If so, what does it think? Does it know how they got there? I want to hear it answer these questions. I want a human-like end to the silent following so badly, I begin to leave my car unlocked. Leave it unattended and barren in a parking space as far from the street light as from the store front. I do not check the backseat. Instead, I hurry into the driver’s side, a flurry of unzipped coats and crinkly shopping bags. I start the car and still do not glance into the rearview mirror for the gauntly shoulders and hooded head that I am sure lies in wait behind me. Instead, I turn the heat on medium, make sure the circulation setting is selected. I say, “is your vent open back there? My God, I’m freezing. Oh, I saw Kathy at the checkout line again, she cut her hair. She looks 10 years younger, I swear.” The shadowy thing behind me remains still as I fuss with the wiper settings, speaking softly of fresh produce and cheap wine. It listens and its head tilts, intrigued.
Sounds.
I had a bad feeling that night.
I don’t like being caught off guard,
so when I shut the door behind me
and felt what I felt
I began to talk about my day.
“It didn’t snow like they said it was going to,”
I said as I began flipping lights on.
“And thank God, that hangover could have been so much worse.”
I exhaled as I pulled a blanket off a suspicious lump on the sofa.
False alarm: just a bookbag I left there.
That night I slept with the door unlocked.
When I hear a noise
in which there is no way to tell
if it was my door opening or the neighbors,
I don’t investigate.
If there is
a trickle of fear down my spine,
I ask myself
“Aren’t you just so tired, though?”
And I drift off to sleep.
I let the noises be just what they are:
Sounds.
A Lilac Bush; A Siren Call
You made me promises
with your coffee burnt tongue
about how beautiful we’d be
and I kissed you
and I would kiss you
about a thousand more times
but that was the last time
that you tasted
like coffee.
You made me dinner
just the once
and you told me
if I didn’t like it
you would make me something else
because you knew
I’d do the same for you
every night after.
You brought me lilacs
that you cut yourself
but you cut yourself
and told me
you had to stay out on the porch
afraid to get blood on my carpet.
You didn’t want me to have to clean anything
and I missed the foreshadowing
because what you meant was
someday that would be all
I existed for.
Funny
that your blood
was the only blood
that was never spilled
inside that house.
Cycles
Pick up your teeth from off the floor.
You’re fine.
But later,
when you’re much older,
we’ll see,
whether this makes you a monster,
or a dentist.
You’re fine.
But later,
when you’re much older,
we’ll see,
whether this makes you a monster,
or a dentist.
The Drug Rug & The Cat
This morning my organs / sit heavy in my abdomen / seeping / rum and coke and carbon dioxide / I still remember the sidewalks / the slap of my dollar tree flip-flops / shower shoes from my years in the dorms / There’s a fire and it smells intentional this time / a bonfire in which there is the unmistakable tang of discarded treasures / aluminum emptied / cigarettes smoked / harsh women with crows feet for eyes / roses inked into their calves / secret meanings, if any, are shared after three drinks / this one’s white, 1997, my oldest baby, three days old, “not enough oxygen,” the doctor said / circles of men with soft eyes and yellow teeth / just boys who have not aged well / One peers past me into the dark / A white creature with a gray face is curled up by the shrubs / feet tucked in / chin to the pavement / I must have lingered too long / Is there a cat over there? / Yeah / Damn, thought I was going crazy / No, it’s there, I promise / You hear that? She promises / The night is blurry with several different kinds of smoke / but the cream coated creature in question is crying / So am I / It begs for me to pick it up / In turn / I find it in me to put it all down: / the car payments / the internship / the handbag / the degree / I wish back for the pieces I taught myself to be things of the past / skunk smoke / uncomfortable jokes / objectification / here, try this / my fingers caught in the front pocket of a drug rug / all those offers to sleep on the couch that I should have taken / and thus I make this less about the degree / the hustle / what I have accomplished / more about the ones I left behind / a decision made all in one night / tuition money all in one envelope / blue hair bleached blonde / this is not surprising / You know, you could just sleep here / That’s alright, I have plans in the morning / You hear that? She has plans.
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Breanna Knight is a graduate from the University of Northern Iowa and a former Editorial Assistant for The North American Review. Her work, described by her supporters as edgy and musical, is found in projects and magazines such as Inner Weather and Uprising. She is also a recipient of The University of Northern Iowa’s 2019 Writing Awards for the genre of poetry and the 2020 Wendel Phillips Memorial Endowed Scholarship. @knightbre
