Aimee Baker
In the cursed country
(unidentified woman discovered December 2, 1990 in McDonald County, Missouri)
- title from a line by Joy Harjo
Who we are is not tethered
cords, or the way our skin
reflects winter light.
We are grace, because memory
is a parachute that falls
quickly until it lights
with a flamed match.
Grace, in that the fox knows
the way to worry bone,
breaking it open
to the soft marrow.
Grace, in land that remembers
it needs to yield
to coming frost,
that preserver of death.
Grace, in a woman
who never forgets
how to carry the weight
of another human
home again.
Santa Muerte
(unidentified woman discovered November 4, 2009 near Casa Grande, Arizona)
Lady of the Shadows,
it has come to this: silvered lines
on my back faded, no clouds
to block heat from my skin.
That angry summer I prayed
for love, offered incense
until my sheets were heavy with you.
And when he finally marked my body,
you came in your white cloak,
gold rings rattling on bone fingers.
Your shrine sat in my garden,
tucked between rock
and the fountain clogged
with Palo Verde blossoms
every spring, the time sun licked
the roof of your temple
with light until you were on fire.
I brought you fresh oranges
tucked coins beneath packets
of cigarettes, inked you
to my skin. You, lady of night,
I watched the stars for you,
stood witness over the seasons.
For this, I prayed for safety.
Niña Santa, after monsoons drag
across sand, brittlebrush will bloom
for you. Harsh and waiting.
Notes from the Pierce County Sheriff’s Department
(unidentified woman discovered December 11, 1976 in Pierce County, Washington)
(unidentified woman discovered August 29, 1978 in Elbe, Pierce County, Washington)
We forgot the beat of memory, the way we once leaned back on tilt-a-whirls, hair trailing on the
ground as the greening world collapsed into one long constellation of light,
how the terror-ache of desire seemed to slip free from skin.
We forgot what we once asked of your bodies: tell us how your bristled length spiraled in water,
how deep the thickets on the side of a mountain are in summer,
how the dust of planetary objects can feel like love.
We forgot the way our hearts are strung to yours, the jungle-heated touch of our hands on your
hands so that we no longer knew
how the body can be land-filled, knobs of vertebrae and the firethorn sharp curve of rib.
We forgot
how we lost you.
Aimee Baker is a Visiting Lecturer at the State University of New York, Plattsburgh where she is also the Fiction Editor at Saranac Review. She holds an MFA from Arizona State University. Work from this series has appeared in journals such as The Southern Review, Witness, The Massachusetts Review, and The Florida Review. Work on this project was supported by a Zoland Poetry Fellowship to the Vermont Studio Center.
Return to September 2015 Edition
(unidentified woman discovered December 2, 1990 in McDonald County, Missouri)
- title from a line by Joy Harjo
Who we are is not tethered
cords, or the way our skin
reflects winter light.
We are grace, because memory
is a parachute that falls
quickly until it lights
with a flamed match.
Grace, in that the fox knows
the way to worry bone,
breaking it open
to the soft marrow.
Grace, in land that remembers
it needs to yield
to coming frost,
that preserver of death.
Grace, in a woman
who never forgets
how to carry the weight
of another human
home again.
Santa Muerte
(unidentified woman discovered November 4, 2009 near Casa Grande, Arizona)
Lady of the Shadows,
it has come to this: silvered lines
on my back faded, no clouds
to block heat from my skin.
That angry summer I prayed
for love, offered incense
until my sheets were heavy with you.
And when he finally marked my body,
you came in your white cloak,
gold rings rattling on bone fingers.
Your shrine sat in my garden,
tucked between rock
and the fountain clogged
with Palo Verde blossoms
every spring, the time sun licked
the roof of your temple
with light until you were on fire.
I brought you fresh oranges
tucked coins beneath packets
of cigarettes, inked you
to my skin. You, lady of night,
I watched the stars for you,
stood witness over the seasons.
For this, I prayed for safety.
Niña Santa, after monsoons drag
across sand, brittlebrush will bloom
for you. Harsh and waiting.
Notes from the Pierce County Sheriff’s Department
(unidentified woman discovered December 11, 1976 in Pierce County, Washington)
(unidentified woman discovered August 29, 1978 in Elbe, Pierce County, Washington)
We forgot the beat of memory, the way we once leaned back on tilt-a-whirls, hair trailing on the
ground as the greening world collapsed into one long constellation of light,
how the terror-ache of desire seemed to slip free from skin.
We forgot what we once asked of your bodies: tell us how your bristled length spiraled in water,
how deep the thickets on the side of a mountain are in summer,
how the dust of planetary objects can feel like love.
We forgot the way our hearts are strung to yours, the jungle-heated touch of our hands on your
hands so that we no longer knew
how the body can be land-filled, knobs of vertebrae and the firethorn sharp curve of rib.
We forgot
how we lost you.
Aimee Baker is a Visiting Lecturer at the State University of New York, Plattsburgh where she is also the Fiction Editor at Saranac Review. She holds an MFA from Arizona State University. Work from this series has appeared in journals such as The Southern Review, Witness, The Massachusetts Review, and The Florida Review. Work on this project was supported by a Zoland Poetry Fellowship to the Vermont Studio Center.
Return to September 2015 Edition