Poetry by Rachelle Lawka

Summer Tsunami

Perspiration collects like a river

on nodules of my spine.

One. Two. Three.

Four.

I count the beads like sheep at night, like

seconds opening up

between one vein of lightning—one Mississippi,

two Mississippi,

three Mississippi,

four—

the clap of thunder struck

against the glass of my window. I measure

time like this. Between hours that pass undisturbed,

those that seep by with the soothing stream of sweat

pooling down my neck, rolling

off my shoulders,

dripping

so painstakingly slow down my back

that if I were to twist my head, I would find 

my damp skin bunching

there on saturated carpet, right next to

a bubbling bath filled with bodily fluid

and mulberry oil and sandalwood soap and—

one Mississippi,

two Mississippi,

            three—

I drink rainwater mixed with SPF 50 sunscreen

that tastes like coconut and strawberry, like

swimming lessons I took as a child. I lick

the trail of lady bugs climbing

up the knobs of my spine, tasting

the lingering tang

of freshly mowed lawns and

newly chlorinated pools.

A drop flows down the empty space connecting

both my breasts, situating itself

in the crevice of my bloated belly. I try to recall

whether I am supposed to start counting the seconds between

the first crack of thunder

and the next blaze of lightning, whether

it is the other way around.

One sheep, two sheep,

three—

Mississippi, four Mississippi,

five—

seconds since the last bang of thunder,

six since the last burst of lightning.

I lose count at twenty, then thirteen, am forced

to start again, but no matter how hard I try

the sheep keep spawning,

the storm keeps stirring,

and

 

the sweat on my spine keeps

bleeding

down

down

down

   D

O

    W

N

onto the carpeted ground

The Sun Had Not Yet Risen When

I woke to find her slender body

amidst a roiling sea

of dew-dappled grass

and trampled tulips,

with a bough of buttercups

draped across

her cranium

like an iridescent crown.

she could have been perceived

as a queen, bedecked in bold fleece,

a cradle of gilded glory

ensnared in vagrant threads of sun, slipped

beneath her breast,

woven in strands steadfast.

She could have been you or me or

the boy down the street.

She could have been

a daughter, a sister.

A merciful mother.

Stomach swollen,

breasts dense, a litter of life

bruised and bonded

in the wall of her womb.

She could have been

but ultimately was not.

Her proliferated middle,

her engorged, embittered gut

deluged of crude contents

on gentle verdant grass,

permeating gardens,

the premature spring

with the bodily stench of slaughter, still sour

in the stagnant stirring of sun.

I could not reach a hand

to mark the spot

where she now forever lay

perpetually,

relentlessly

flaccid.

I could not knead my knuckles against

the soft of her supple flesh,

to thrust tissue, now staining soil,

back into her seeping carcass.

Opossum—Oh, friend of mine,

lover of this wild wasteland,

sister of this hollow abode,

I will sustain your fragile frame,

build you a burrow made from bones,

crafted from cloths, fashioned from leaves,

I will build you a grave made for a queen.

Rachelle Lawka is an emerging Canadian poet, writer, and aspiring painter, who has a deep, unyielding love and respect for nature, which we are all ultimately conceived from. Much of her writing and art is formed around the understanding that both human and nature are inherently connected, and thus should be embraced equally and wholeheartedly. When she is not writing or painting, you can instead find her tending to her plants, reading her cat poetry, or exploring a new hiking trail.