Rachel Nelson
Tar Baby To-Do List
I was made to mimic
marshland, wetland, quicksand.
To not escape. To ape
bear trap and loose jaw. To love
an acre of land more
than a country. Soft apprentice
to whips. I was made to idle intently.
What a way to build
a sense of self.
To sit with a loaded plate
and guard it
from my own mouth.
In stillness. In goo
in which light stutters
and stops. I quiet
but sit with gossip.
Telltale. I scare-
crow in indigo. I snare. Know
North from South.
I inkwell. Tattoo. Go
nowhere. Indelible, of course.
In stillness, I enjoy what passes
for silence: the sound of stars,
their animal voices in the night.
Tar Baby in Love
Tell me how you fell in love.
I have no clothes
that were not given to me.
My hat came from the man who gave me legs
but made sure they could not move.
I stand sentry in a field,
a kind of combat. What is love
to a guard dog in his circle
of dirt, to a ghoul rustling
in the darkness of distant trees?
My footprint covets the footprints
of light rabbit feet, the flowing grip
of purple-headed morning glories.
I was sat in the mud
by the river banks’ broad shoulders.
I was sat by the rising tide
of rice patties in a hood.
What is love to a shadow’s best wish
for a body? After the tar brush,
it is easy to imagine the fangs.
I can pretend to walk
as easily I can pretend to fly.
I pretend that we hold hands.
Tell me how
you meet your love? Anyone
you love? There’s always a moment
that cannot be explained.
Rachel Nelson is a Cave Canem fellow and a graduate of the University of Michigan’s MFA program, where she won a Hopwood prize for playwriting. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the museum of americana, Muzzle Magazine, pinwheel, Pleiades, Radar Poetry, and elsewhere. She lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Return to May 2022 Edition
I was made to mimic
marshland, wetland, quicksand.
To not escape. To ape
bear trap and loose jaw. To love
an acre of land more
than a country. Soft apprentice
to whips. I was made to idle intently.
What a way to build
a sense of self.
To sit with a loaded plate
and guard it
from my own mouth.
In stillness. In goo
in which light stutters
and stops. I quiet
but sit with gossip.
Telltale. I scare-
crow in indigo. I snare. Know
North from South.
I inkwell. Tattoo. Go
nowhere. Indelible, of course.
In stillness, I enjoy what passes
for silence: the sound of stars,
their animal voices in the night.
Tar Baby in Love
Tell me how you fell in love.
I have no clothes
that were not given to me.
My hat came from the man who gave me legs
but made sure they could not move.
I stand sentry in a field,
a kind of combat. What is love
to a guard dog in his circle
of dirt, to a ghoul rustling
in the darkness of distant trees?
My footprint covets the footprints
of light rabbit feet, the flowing grip
of purple-headed morning glories.
I was sat in the mud
by the river banks’ broad shoulders.
I was sat by the rising tide
of rice patties in a hood.
What is love to a shadow’s best wish
for a body? After the tar brush,
it is easy to imagine the fangs.
I can pretend to walk
as easily I can pretend to fly.
I pretend that we hold hands.
Tell me how
you meet your love? Anyone
you love? There’s always a moment
that cannot be explained.
Rachel Nelson is a Cave Canem fellow and a graduate of the University of Michigan’s MFA program, where she won a Hopwood prize for playwriting. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in the museum of americana, Muzzle Magazine, pinwheel, Pleiades, Radar Poetry, and elsewhere. She lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan.
Return to May 2022 Edition