Natalie Martell
Marcescence
The wind is a scream’s echo, rippling
throat of mist. A loon slips away, a silent
puncture like the cramp at my center.
Last night, rain bulleted the tent, thundering
down to the bone. No evidence
remains this morning. Before I left
for the Boundary Waters, where the land ribbons
between water & sky, my mom spoke to me of losing
the people who shared her memories,
the way it half-vanished her past. What is it
to be known? Water surrounds me, the yellowing
of autumn reflected in glass. Not all trees
lose everything in winter. Some hold
their leaves, close fists & rattle
through the cold howl until new buds
melt them down into the soil—where it all ends
up. Once, running through a park,
a deer stopped me short, still
as an island, watching. Have I ever been seen
as thoroughly as I was through her
widened eye? Before I came here,
I was ashamed to enter the woods
bleeding. I wanted to leave no trace. Now, bees
scour for gold as I empty myself
red into the earth, my blood catching light
like horizon, like something
that could have grown. It settles deep into the soil,
sinking as if to escape a washing away.
Natalie Martell is a Minneapolis-based queer writer. Since earning her MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato, she has received creative support grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board. Her work has appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, The Journal, Salt Hill, SWWIM, and elsewhere.
Return to March 2024 Edition
The wind is a scream’s echo, rippling
throat of mist. A loon slips away, a silent
puncture like the cramp at my center.
Last night, rain bulleted the tent, thundering
down to the bone. No evidence
remains this morning. Before I left
for the Boundary Waters, where the land ribbons
between water & sky, my mom spoke to me of losing
the people who shared her memories,
the way it half-vanished her past. What is it
to be known? Water surrounds me, the yellowing
of autumn reflected in glass. Not all trees
lose everything in winter. Some hold
their leaves, close fists & rattle
through the cold howl until new buds
melt them down into the soil—where it all ends
up. Once, running through a park,
a deer stopped me short, still
as an island, watching. Have I ever been seen
as thoroughly as I was through her
widened eye? Before I came here,
I was ashamed to enter the woods
bleeding. I wanted to leave no trace. Now, bees
scour for gold as I empty myself
red into the earth, my blood catching light
like horizon, like something
that could have grown. It settles deep into the soil,
sinking as if to escape a washing away.
Natalie Martell is a Minneapolis-based queer writer. Since earning her MFA from Minnesota State University, Mankato, she has received creative support grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board. Her work has appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, The Journal, Salt Hill, SWWIM, and elsewhere.
Return to March 2024 Edition