INTERIOR LANDSCAPE
A diminishing presence
of god & god-figures. Weak
sun. After dusk, the porch light,
only. All the reaching
creatures, limbed & rooted
or crawling, clawing
up the porch steps. Snuffling,
searching for scraps. Fur
matted with unknown
blood. Holes
torn into ears. A knocking
of spoons against tin cups,
Come, little ones, & be fed.
An island of breathing
in the purring dark. Hunger
& hunger & nightshade
& bloom.
THE MINE FIRE SPEAKS
Centralia, Pennsylvania
I was born a castoff
desire: what goes up
must be devoured.
I heard the mothers
call me trash. Beyond
me lay some other
me: a supine body
in the summer heat.
My daddy
was a coal miner: lamp
stink & black
lung & Momma
was a matchstick redhead
from Sulphur, Louisiana.
I became, I was struck
like gold or an insolent
cheek. I licked
into the maze & now
my tongue
burns & my tongue burns
& my tongue
burns every hour, every
day. Hungry,
I open my mouth.
VALENTINE’S DAY, 1981
Centralia, Pennsylvania
All I know about love
is the small opening
in my stomach
when Molly Maguire
applies her chapstick
during Sunday school
or mops orange grease
from her lips
at Sweet Pizzz’s Pizza.
The pies there come out
hotter that hell.
I ask Gran why I can’t
have a few extra bucks
to get a slice & she
tells me I’m lucky to live
above the ground.
Was a time boys younger
than you went down
those mines with nothing
but a canary for company
& guess what happened
to the canaries?
In Sunday school they said
the world would end in fire.
Today in Gran’s backyard
the trees are birdless.
_____________________
Caylin Capra-Thomas is the author of a chapbook, The Marilyn Letters, available through dancing girl press. Her work has appeared in journals such as Sixth Finch, Phoebe, and Thin Air Magazine. She lives in Missoula, Montana, where she is pursuing an MFA.
The Boiler 