Elizabeth Kuelbs
Bloom
The leaf-gold wind willows Jenna’s hair
into my cupcake gloss. I don’t care because
she equals PanAm jets and tap shoes
and I equal geodes and (will secretly marry)
Shadowfax. We lift the canoe off its stand,
swing it toward the sun-dazzled lake,
try not to scythe
the coneflowers, obedient.
Steps that can be taken:
Stock walleye to hunt crayfish and
minnows and free little Daphnia to eat
the blue algae blooms. Plant calico aster
and fern in the watershed to filter
phosphorus and deter invasive
species. Do not babysit
for the Harley dad.
Mallards burst up quacking
at two boys,
walking the waterline,
tall, gilded.
The grass unroots
at a beryl gaze, the chlorine sheen,
the high shoulders.
The lake laps at the bow.
One says, We think you’re cute.
One says, We want you to suck our
Carpet the bedroom floor
with wire hangers so you hear if
the fish eyes at the window
try to get in. Mark your exits. Learn
to injure. Avoid stairwells, ponytails,
deep thought. Fist your keys. Pack
a canteen. Raise your daughters to
fight and your son to be a good man.
The ducks turn rooster
and splash down: all claws,
red wattles and skin crowns.
Oh. My. God, Jenna says. Get off her yard.
We shove out through the weeds
and paddle toward the bright middle,
my meat hands electric,
trembling.
into my cupcake gloss. I don’t care because
she equals PanAm jets and tap shoes
and I equal geodes and (will secretly marry)
Shadowfax. We lift the canoe off its stand,
swing it toward the sun-dazzled lake,
try not to scythe
the coneflowers, obedient.
Steps that can be taken:
Stock walleye to hunt crayfish and
minnows and free little Daphnia to eat
the blue algae blooms. Plant calico aster
and fern in the watershed to filter
phosphorus and deter invasive
species. Do not babysit
for the Harley dad.
Mallards burst up quacking
at two boys,
walking the waterline,
tall, gilded.
The grass unroots
at a beryl gaze, the chlorine sheen,
the high shoulders.
The lake laps at the bow.
One says, We think you’re cute.
One says, We want you to suck our
Carpet the bedroom floor
with wire hangers so you hear if
the fish eyes at the window
try to get in. Mark your exits. Learn
to injure. Avoid stairwells, ponytails,
deep thought. Fist your keys. Pack
a canteen. Raise your daughters to
fight and your son to be a good man.
The ducks turn rooster
and splash down: all claws,
red wattles and skin crowns.
Oh. My. God, Jenna says. Get off her yard.
We shove out through the weeds
and paddle toward the bright middle,
my meat hands electric,
trembling.
Commentary
Elizabeth on "Bloom":
Listening to the voices of the #MeToo movement and talking with friends about their experiences surfaced memories for me of being sexually harassed at the edge of independence. It also sharpened my fears for my two daughters about to go out into the world. Those memories and dangers merged into this poem, which attempts to blend times and natural elements to evoke the persistence and prevalence of sexual harassment and violence. And by calling fears into daylight, it attempts to fight them.
Listening to the voices of the #MeToo movement and talking with friends about their experiences surfaced memories for me of being sexually harassed at the edge of independence. It also sharpened my fears for my two daughters about to go out into the world. Those memories and dangers merged into this poem, which attempts to blend times and natural elements to evoke the persistence and prevalence of sexual harassment and violence. And by calling fears into daylight, it attempts to fight them.
Biography
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Elizabeth Kuelbs (she/her) writes and mothers at the edge of a Los Angeles canyon. She holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her poems appear in Solo Novo 7/8: Psalms of Cinder & Silt, The Timberline Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Cricket, The Sunlight Press, and elsewhere. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and the author of How to Clean Your Eyes, a chapbook forthcoming from dancing girl press. You can find her online at elizabethkuelbs.com.
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