Green Linden Press

Raspberry, Papaya, Apple

1887
Degas, Edgar. Three Mounted Jockeys
Cleaveland, Grover (President) The Dawes Act Signed into Law

It seems like the right thing to do—to get the shovel from the shed, dig a hole in the backyard deep as I have it in me to go; to walk in to the house, unsnap the plastic box of raspberries, and pick one up between my two fingers, hold it, stare, become dizzy with possibility—yet here it is, whole, unsquashed, unharmed even, between my two thick fingers. In the hollow of my palm, I run it under water—cold at first, then warm. It seems like the right thing to do—I take off my glasses, I kick my shoes off and throw socks across the room with one hand. I breathe slower. I breathe slower. I hold the raspberry close enough to see the droplets clinging to the side, filling its little red cup. It’s then I notice the quiet of the empty house—I don’t think I could have done this if anyone else was here. My mind aches to chase the dopamine-rabbit instead into a couple of movies, to patch the driveway listening to The Smiths, wipe-down the inside of the fridge, but this seems like the right thing to do right now, the rabbits dash off to the borrows. I place the raspberry in my mouth. Unblemished, unbruised—perfect as a dream. I go to the backyard barefoot and before the hole I’ve dug, I kneel and pull from my pocket a folded list and place it inside the caldera I’ve prepared. Gently, I bow, I lower my head and torso down, and with my tongue and teeth I place the raspberry on top of the list. There’s stone of my own making I swallow. I scold myself: I am alone. I weep. I weep and then I vomit. With my hands, I pull the dirt in. Half-way through, it seems like the right thing to do is sing; I wait until I’ve re-evened the ground, then I sing to the East. I imagine a while-tailed fawn, alone. Around another stone, I cannot complete the verse. I wait until I can finish it. I finish it. I sing to the East.

It's not been long since brian,
We weren’t close; I still miss him
We’d just talked online.
Uncle Saginaw got sick
Auntie Drake died, too

V and S OD’ed
In lieu of funeral rites:
Imagination,
Quarantine ceremony.
Snow on yellow daffodils

I cannot fit a papaya in my mouth. All the same it seems right to dig a hole in the backyard under the tilted pine that leans over-top our little valley. I dig until I don’t have it in me anymore—I wish I wasn’t in my body, that I could dig until someone else stopped me, stopped me some time long after I had hurt myself and pushed passed it. But I am in here. I am careful of the pine. I don’t know how to prepare papaya; it seems right to use a drop of dish-soap—the Dawn being empty, I use some of my wife’s Johnson & Johnson, gently massage the suds against the skin of the fruit, rinse under warm running water. I’ve since replaced the faucet to one like they use in real kitchens, the ones where they know what they’re doing. I don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe the right clothes will make me the right man. I use one of the new towels to wrap the papaya dry, carry it to the backyard in the crook of my arm. I use my heels to pry off my shoes, I hook my free thumb and pull my socks off, I hang my glasses off one of my shirt buttons. I kneel before the hole below the pine, I lay the papaya down in it. The clouds hurry past us up here on the mountain, the scrub-jays are after the acorns, the hawks are after the scrub-jays, the neighborhood chihuahuas are after them all. Into the towel I place a torn off slip of paper, written so the only name is facing inwards. Before pulling in the earth, I turn and sing to the East, and then to the North—midway is as far as I get before the rage and grief take over. I throw up. It’ll be three days before I eat. I sing around the stone, and I sing to the North.

T's daughter walks on
We send cash to bury her
Twenty students die
J. falls, busts her mouth and teeth
S. has her baby alone

C. has a bad stroke
We can’t help anybody
J. has a bad wreck
The VA chops my uncle
up over six months

It seems right that I never should have done this alone. My wife and I trade off with the shovel—digging in the snow is a bitch-and-a-half, but my wife and I get it done—I dig while she rests, she digs while I rest, we dig until we’re both shaking, layers soaked with sweat—a hole up our waists in the front yard by the lavender bush where we were married.  We go inside and change, eat half a sandwich and a Gatorade—the point is to suffer not become hospitalized—we leave our socks and shoes inside, leave our glasses by the bathroom sink. From the freezer she takes the apple; from the counter I take a paring knife. We clean the apple with water with warm water. Barefoot, we walk to the hole in the front yard, we kneel together and with the knife carve into the apple, letter by letter, a name we say together. I sing to the East, the North. I cannot get my tongue around this river stone, holding my wife’s hand I vomit into the hole. My wife learns from the first two verses, and she sings to the West. It seems right we pull the earth and snow together with our bare hands.

Ropes in the Pinkest Room

1879
Degas, Edgar. Miss La La at the Cirque Fernando.
Pratt, Richard Henry (Capt.) Founds Carlisle Indian Industrial School.

               Heavy coil
    of nautical manila
                    rope
over high truss
        shrunk
between          my mother’s raspish teeth,
        rewind from this hoisted woman
                    in the pinkest room,
to cranes and green papyrus.
She clenches her jaw so.
Her breached                                      infant,
toes pointed                                        down,
shod now
in pine                with her uterus         buried,
           cooing a lullaby of pink yarn,
     white yarn. Her open palms
pale, her tongue bitten out.
Garnet deltas
                                                           and grease
                                                        ants            wind
                                                  around               her
                                                like a list           of names
                                                     ground    to braided
                                                               fibers.

Michaelsun Stonesweat Knapp, an enrolled member of the Costanoan-Rumsen Band of Ohlone, graduated from the Institute of American Indian Arts Low Rez MFA program, was nominated for a 2016 Pushcart & was a 2016 Periphery Poets Fellow. He now lives out in the woods in the San Bernardino National Forest with his wife, and he teaches at Cal State San Bernardino.

ISSN 2472-338X
© 2022