Cara Peterhansel
Futile Feet
a pecha kucha after Amy Cutler
[Futile Fleet]
We try to keep all the distance we can, but being
tied together at the head, woven in a star of braids,
we shuffle like one undulating creature. I watch
my futile feet. Sometimes, I dream
my braids fall out in clumps.
[Embargo]
Together, we are a futile fleet, sailing towards
each other. We are the masts, the sails, our own
figureheads. Our trade is dolls, cloth replicas
of ourselves. Sometimes, we’ll sell any sea creatures
we’ve been able to trawl from the floor of the ocean.
[Gorge]
The cliffs in the distance are strung with color--
flags like paint spats on the face of the mountain.
The women who put them there are long dead.
How it must have felt to weave in and out of mountain goats,
free and dressed in skeins of mountain air.
[Allopathy]
Some of the older women think they understand
what it is in the air that makes it dangerous to breathe.
Sometimes, it is enough to keep our hands busy,
knitting, stitching, folding, braiding. Sometimes, it is not enough,
[Groomers]
Instead of sitting at a loom to weave, sliding the shuttle
of the weft through woolstrands, my fingers find
their wisdom weaving Margaret’s hair into braids.
A poet might say her hair is sunshorne wheat,
but really, it is a breathing, desperate animal.
[Sugar Foot]
We pull each other like taffy— aerate each limb
like the candy it is. This is the only way I know
how to live— at the table, stringing sugar into
delicate thread.
[Preceding]
We drag sleds behind us as we migrate to the wall.
The days we work at shutting ourselves in are
the days I wish to be dressed in nothing but my skin. At night,
I run my fingers across the tender pads of my callouses,
and wonder how long it will be before I can’t feel her softness.
[Trial]
Not all of us are sisters, but some days it’s fun
to play at sisterhood. We fly kites in parallel near
the worksite. Margaret has cemented her dress
into the wall, but the sky is collecting our kites
in firm updrafts, so I might be the only one to notice.
[Realignment]
Our women used to tend to
the aching backs of any creature who came across
our fields. Not anymore. We still soothe each other’s
backs after a day of working at the wall. This way, we still
pass down our traditions.
[Initiation]
When I was little, and we still took creatures in,
I watched as my mothers ushered turtles
into the tents of the dead. I don’t remember why
or where the turtles went when they were done
with all our keening.
[Garnish]
Margaret told me a story once of how her mothers
used to feed pink pigs with apples, overripe and red.
What a serenade of sunset it must have been
to watch their pink mouths foam with juice.
[Molar Migration]
Sometimes, when it is quiet, I convince myself
there is a party right behind the wall of my forehead.
Girls like us, dancing, in a room with no windows
and fluorescent lights. There is a whole world, as
closely knit as ours, rattling in my skull.
[Millie]
I’m not sure who named me, but I think they got
it wrong. I am a sorceress of my own
loneliness, Circe of my own soul.
[Cautionary Trail]
I catch a glimpse of my body in the mirrored
walls of the house and realize that it’s actually a mirage
of my own limbs in the heat pool of another girl, wearing
the same cornflower-dyed fabric.
[Elephant Ferries]
Margaret and I drape ourselves over large rocks
on sunny days— let the heat wrap into our backs
as if on some sweet and breathing thing. Warm
sun like warm blood circulating through veins.
[Bionic Contortion]
One afternoon, Margaret and I pin fresh-dyed
fabric to a clothesline. We sit in the shade
of swinging dresses. They leak pigment on us--
drops of dye like constellations on our skin.
Her lips on mine turn our mouths
into a secret tunnel of sacred breath.
[Waders]
Her body is a vast cavern to wade down. How had
our fingers spent so long away from sinking
in the mud of each other? We wonder this.
I lift my head and study the imprint
of my braids on her soft, bare skin.
[Viragos]
Later, alone again, all the objects in the house
of my mind are strung on a line, dangling from
deep-dyed clothespins. She is in every corridor,
every cloth.
[Traction]
We try to keep all the distance we can,
but being tied together, my futile feet find
their wisdom. I aerate each limb of her,
dressed in nothing but a serenade of sunset.
[The House on the Hill]
The skydust makes us cough when we get too close
to the wall. Maybe, someday, when the wall is tall
enough, Margaret and I will paint a mural. Our hands will be spattered
with colors, and all we’ll hear is the brushes against the brick,
thick with lacquer. This way, we’ll paint our home.
[Futile Fleet]
We try to keep all the distance we can, but being
tied together at the head, woven in a star of braids,
we shuffle like one undulating creature. I watch
my futile feet. Sometimes, I dream
my braids fall out in clumps.
[Embargo]
Together, we are a futile fleet, sailing towards
each other. We are the masts, the sails, our own
figureheads. Our trade is dolls, cloth replicas
of ourselves. Sometimes, we’ll sell any sea creatures
we’ve been able to trawl from the floor of the ocean.
[Gorge]
The cliffs in the distance are strung with color--
flags like paint spats on the face of the mountain.
The women who put them there are long dead.
How it must have felt to weave in and out of mountain goats,
free and dressed in skeins of mountain air.
[Allopathy]
Some of the older women think they understand
what it is in the air that makes it dangerous to breathe.
Sometimes, it is enough to keep our hands busy,
knitting, stitching, folding, braiding. Sometimes, it is not enough,
[Groomers]
Instead of sitting at a loom to weave, sliding the shuttle
of the weft through woolstrands, my fingers find
their wisdom weaving Margaret’s hair into braids.
A poet might say her hair is sunshorne wheat,
but really, it is a breathing, desperate animal.
[Sugar Foot]
We pull each other like taffy— aerate each limb
like the candy it is. This is the only way I know
how to live— at the table, stringing sugar into
delicate thread.
[Preceding]
We drag sleds behind us as we migrate to the wall.
The days we work at shutting ourselves in are
the days I wish to be dressed in nothing but my skin. At night,
I run my fingers across the tender pads of my callouses,
and wonder how long it will be before I can’t feel her softness.
[Trial]
Not all of us are sisters, but some days it’s fun
to play at sisterhood. We fly kites in parallel near
the worksite. Margaret has cemented her dress
into the wall, but the sky is collecting our kites
in firm updrafts, so I might be the only one to notice.
[Realignment]
Our women used to tend to
the aching backs of any creature who came across
our fields. Not anymore. We still soothe each other’s
backs after a day of working at the wall. This way, we still
pass down our traditions.
[Initiation]
When I was little, and we still took creatures in,
I watched as my mothers ushered turtles
into the tents of the dead. I don’t remember why
or where the turtles went when they were done
with all our keening.
[Garnish]
Margaret told me a story once of how her mothers
used to feed pink pigs with apples, overripe and red.
What a serenade of sunset it must have been
to watch their pink mouths foam with juice.
[Molar Migration]
Sometimes, when it is quiet, I convince myself
there is a party right behind the wall of my forehead.
Girls like us, dancing, in a room with no windows
and fluorescent lights. There is a whole world, as
closely knit as ours, rattling in my skull.
[Millie]
I’m not sure who named me, but I think they got
it wrong. I am a sorceress of my own
loneliness, Circe of my own soul.
[Cautionary Trail]
I catch a glimpse of my body in the mirrored
walls of the house and realize that it’s actually a mirage
of my own limbs in the heat pool of another girl, wearing
the same cornflower-dyed fabric.
[Elephant Ferries]
Margaret and I drape ourselves over large rocks
on sunny days— let the heat wrap into our backs
as if on some sweet and breathing thing. Warm
sun like warm blood circulating through veins.
[Bionic Contortion]
One afternoon, Margaret and I pin fresh-dyed
fabric to a clothesline. We sit in the shade
of swinging dresses. They leak pigment on us--
drops of dye like constellations on our skin.
Her lips on mine turn our mouths
into a secret tunnel of sacred breath.
[Waders]
Her body is a vast cavern to wade down. How had
our fingers spent so long away from sinking
in the mud of each other? We wonder this.
I lift my head and study the imprint
of my braids on her soft, bare skin.
[Viragos]
Later, alone again, all the objects in the house
of my mind are strung on a line, dangling from
deep-dyed clothespins. She is in every corridor,
every cloth.
[Traction]
We try to keep all the distance we can,
but being tied together, my futile feet find
their wisdom. I aerate each limb of her,
dressed in nothing but a serenade of sunset.
[The House on the Hill]
The skydust makes us cough when we get too close
to the wall. Maybe, someday, when the wall is tall
enough, Margaret and I will paint a mural. Our hands will be spattered
with colors, and all we’ll hear is the brushes against the brick,
thick with lacquer. This way, we’ll paint our home.
Biography
Cara Peterhansel (she/her) is a poet from Connecticut. She is an MFA candidate in Poetry at Sarah Lawrence College. Her work explores the intersections of invisible and visible illness, injury, queerness, and art. She explores how the space we occupy, in the body and in the physical world, shapes the people we become. She lives in New York with her husband Julian and their rabbit Simba. Her work has previously appeared in The Jet Fuel Review, The Laurel Review, and Alexandria Quarterly. She can be found online at carapeterhansel.com.
|