Addressee
Come dusk, the field makes the sound
of a vanishing. I cut through, feeling
just like a waste below the pinkish clouds
that dangle without any language.
Last night, was told that language makes
the world. Tonight, the world makes the line,
so crossed, like how still I can’t escape you,
my addressee – the friend who died
or the boy I once adored like a wind chime. Hello!
The world feels exactly like itself, only perhaps
quieter, less peopled. I miss you, of course.
All of you. I’ve been feeling pregnant every day
for the past week – at least the desire to be.
That to mother would make me more loyal
like the beginning of a story. That to be loyal
is to behave. That to behave is to know, perhaps,
about the deepest rhizomes of reverence. I have
nothing but this body, its uncradled bloat, to give you –
we could rest atop the grass, gravel, and wade
through all the blinding saltwater of this earth.
of a vanishing. I cut through, feeling
just like a waste below the pinkish clouds
that dangle without any language.
Last night, was told that language makes
the world. Tonight, the world makes the line,
so crossed, like how still I can’t escape you,
my addressee – the friend who died
or the boy I once adored like a wind chime. Hello!
The world feels exactly like itself, only perhaps
quieter, less peopled. I miss you, of course.
All of you. I’ve been feeling pregnant every day
for the past week – at least the desire to be.
That to mother would make me more loyal
like the beginning of a story. That to be loyal
is to behave. That to behave is to know, perhaps,
about the deepest rhizomes of reverence. I have
nothing but this body, its uncradled bloat, to give you –
we could rest atop the grass, gravel, and wade
through all the blinding saltwater of this earth.
Fox Theater in Oakland, California
A peach pit yearns in my mouth, dazzles on my tongue
like the startling movement of a dove. A dove,
as everybody knows, resembles the taboo moon. I pry
open this splendid and sinister weather – nothing
is this miraculous! But the elm across the way is beautiful,
this dress is made of silk. Last night, donned in the silk,
I found myself with myself, alone at a concert. A piano
was clawing on the stage like a crow. Inside the theater, night’s
terrain doubled over itself. At the show, I could hear
the weeping I’d been doing for months. Was only there
for an evening. Was anchored to a plush chair, a scrap
of its velvet residing between my forefinger and thumb.
With my eyes closed, the ceiling was wide as a radio, pulsing,
with the longing that another new song might be played.
like the startling movement of a dove. A dove,
as everybody knows, resembles the taboo moon. I pry
open this splendid and sinister weather – nothing
is this miraculous! But the elm across the way is beautiful,
this dress is made of silk. Last night, donned in the silk,
I found myself with myself, alone at a concert. A piano
was clawing on the stage like a crow. Inside the theater, night’s
terrain doubled over itself. At the show, I could hear
the weeping I’d been doing for months. Was only there
for an evening. Was anchored to a plush chair, a scrap
of its velvet residing between my forefinger and thumb.
With my eyes closed, the ceiling was wide as a radio, pulsing,
with the longing that another new song might be played.
Shadow Seen Come the Falsity of Night
They say I stole his favorite color. Blue.
Fact. The idea that I loved him against
a miraculous city, the city
spinning onward like a great ship. Fact. Fact
remains that we used to have potential:
to carry wings of broken swallows,
to name any animals at all. On
farms, we carried cracked eggs between gold wings
on our backs. Shells broke into our
skins. We were becoming. It remains true
that when he died, he wore his best sweater,
and did not speak. Or he spoke softly, like
a new kind of desire. Mornings, he
touched my birthmark as though my body were
the beloved. Fact. It was. Until the
funeral, we were precisely alike.
There were no metaphors. Only dull knives
in the kitchen meant for slicing through cake.
Fact. The idea that I loved him against
a miraculous city, the city
spinning onward like a great ship. Fact. Fact
remains that we used to have potential:
to carry wings of broken swallows,
to name any animals at all. On
farms, we carried cracked eggs between gold wings
on our backs. Shells broke into our
skins. We were becoming. It remains true
that when he died, he wore his best sweater,
and did not speak. Or he spoke softly, like
a new kind of desire. Mornings, he
touched my birthmark as though my body were
the beloved. Fact. It was. Until the
funeral, we were precisely alike.
There were no metaphors. Only dull knives
in the kitchen meant for slicing through cake.
Having to Do with Some Guilt
I’ve saved the lines you read to me about the silver fish
in the winter pond – even in January, they never grew cold.
In January, we kept missing one another. No space, all distance.
Too much space, not enough time. The night you left,
I left, too, for a party where I intended to wail by the speaker.
The music was loud, rapid and rabid as an ambulance.
I was becoming my own infant. I’ve no idea what it’s like
to be a mother! I’m beginning to own up to this, trying
to live up to my regrets, looking for the simplicity in womanhood.
Everywhere startles me. The world like bits of clam shell
breaking into the soles of the feet. This afternoon, alone in my friend’s
living room, traffic rears its head through the window. I still forget
that people exist. The problem is thoughts rhyme too slowly.
The bluest skies of California are just outside – your weather so far away.
in the winter pond – even in January, they never grew cold.
In January, we kept missing one another. No space, all distance.
Too much space, not enough time. The night you left,
I left, too, for a party where I intended to wail by the speaker.
The music was loud, rapid and rabid as an ambulance.
I was becoming my own infant. I’ve no idea what it’s like
to be a mother! I’m beginning to own up to this, trying
to live up to my regrets, looking for the simplicity in womanhood.
Everywhere startles me. The world like bits of clam shell
breaking into the soles of the feet. This afternoon, alone in my friend’s
living room, traffic rears its head through the window. I still forget
that people exist. The problem is thoughts rhyme too slowly.
The bluest skies of California are just outside – your weather so far away.
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Loisa Fenichell’s work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and has been featured or is forthcoming in Guernica Magazine, Narrative Magazine, Poetry Northwest, Washington Square Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook all these urban fields was published by nothing to say press and her collection Wandering in all directions of this earth is the winner of the 2022 Ghost Peach Press Prize, selected by Eduardo C. Corral and forthcoming from Ghost Peach Press in 2023. She is the winner of the 2021 Bat City Review Editors' Prize, has been a finalist for Narrative Magazine’s 2021 30 Below contest, a runner-up for Tupelo Quarterly's Tupelo Poetry Prize, and a finalist for the Dorianne Laux / Joe Millar prize. She has been the recipient of an award from Bread Loaf Writers’ Workshop and is currently an MFA candidate at Columbia University, where she holds the Writers’ Scholarship.
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