M. Bartley Seigel
Birch Oil, Smoke, Pine Tar, Switch
for Marika
Sweat beads above her trapezius scar,
coalescing to rivulet down her
torso, passed the mole I've claimed my own, stone
amid the gathering rush. She reaches
for the pine bucket of water, mother
Superior in her dipping spoon, then
quick wrist flick at the rocks atop the stove,
white hiss of steam mushrooming, rising up
to the low ceiling before circling round,
settling like nettles along the low bench.
Cedar walled, lost in cloudbank, each of us
a gathering, wordless storm, we dewdrop
and breach in long arcing inhalations
of lung and heart, time and memory. Slow
now, patience, stamina, suffering, charge.
Another time, shore, and sauna, she slipped
on wet tile and fell atop a wood stove,
searing metal branding deep into her
a burn so bad it did not even hurt,
leaving her the scar, shaped like Michigan's
Upper Peninsula. A sign. This day,
this afternoon, our ten thousand secrets
between us, reflections mirrored perfect
in the ice cold blue of the pond outside.
As close as I'll come to church—birch oil, smoke,
pine tar, switch, ritual cycle of fire,
sweet water. As close as I'll come to god―
her body, gold, red maple leaves falling.
M. Bartley Seigel is the author of This Is What They Say (poetry, Typecast Publishing, 2012). His writing has appeared in DIAGRAM, Forklift Ohio, H_NGM_N, Lumberyard Magazine, Michigan Quarterly Review, Pamplemousse, Thrush, and numerous elsewheres, and he is a regular contributor to Words without Borders. He was the founding editor and publisher of PANK Magazine. He teaches at Michigan Technological University in Houghton, Michigan, where he lives with his family.
Return to January 2018 Edition
for Marika
Sweat beads above her trapezius scar,
coalescing to rivulet down her
torso, passed the mole I've claimed my own, stone
amid the gathering rush. She reaches
for the pine bucket of water, mother
Superior in her dipping spoon, then
quick wrist flick at the rocks atop the stove,
white hiss of steam mushrooming, rising up
to the low ceiling before circling round,
settling like nettles along the low bench.
Cedar walled, lost in cloudbank, each of us
a gathering, wordless storm, we dewdrop
and breach in long arcing inhalations
of lung and heart, time and memory. Slow
now, patience, stamina, suffering, charge.
Another time, shore, and sauna, she slipped
on wet tile and fell atop a wood stove,
searing metal branding deep into her
a burn so bad it did not even hurt,
leaving her the scar, shaped like Michigan's
Upper Peninsula. A sign. This day,
this afternoon, our ten thousand secrets
between us, reflections mirrored perfect
in the ice cold blue of the pond outside.
As close as I'll come to church—birch oil, smoke,
pine tar, switch, ritual cycle of fire,
sweet water. As close as I'll come to god―
her body, gold, red maple leaves falling.
M. Bartley Seigel is the author of This Is What They Say (poetry, Typecast Publishing, 2012). His writing has appeared in DIAGRAM, Forklift Ohio, H_NGM_N, Lumberyard Magazine, Michigan Quarterly Review, Pamplemousse, Thrush, and numerous elsewheres, and he is a regular contributor to Words without Borders. He was the founding editor and publisher of PANK Magazine. He teaches at Michigan Technological University in Houghton, Michigan, where he lives with his family.
Return to January 2018 Edition