Pitkin Avenue and Stone by Cynthia Manick
I found myself in that store again for the second time
this month, a place the body remembers like a thrash
in the hamstring or the Bob Marley songs we sang
when I was seven. The merchandise has changed
from 49 cent herring to barely dressed Malibu Barbies
and lime green lawn chairs. This is where I learned
to speak, to open mouth wide, and curve palms
to say “give me.” My mother would buy sweet meats
and matching barrettes for ponytails that sprawled
from my head like little black arms. I remember
sausage links in bright string, lynchpins, and gummed
toffee that stuck just right to tooth and rib. Today I met
a twin heart washed in salt; an older version of my twenty-
two year old self, where time had pressed little craters
hard on the skin. She was in the hardware aisle wearing
white gloves with pearl buttons, and water dripped
from her skirt like small golden scales leaving a trail
due northeast. Questions rose to the roof of my mouth,
but the topsoil was too thick to speak clearly. I wanted
to say something between a whisper and a prayer
about this store, was their rain outside, this stitch in time,
and this burst in the brain. I wanted to excavate my almost
me chest-deep, but words and letters quickly came undone.
We stepped together as if by surprise, a double exposed
photograph or painting of something caged. I grabbed a
piece of chalk and black marker to outline the cross of our
bodies and to take note of her scars.
____________________________________
Cynthia Manick received her MFA in Creative Writing from the New School. She is a Cave Canem Fellow.
I found myself in that store again for the second time
this month, a place the body remembers like a thrash
in the hamstring or the Bob Marley songs we sang
when I was seven. The merchandise has changed
from 49 cent herring to barely dressed Malibu Barbies
and lime green lawn chairs. This is where I learned
to speak, to open mouth wide, and curve palms
to say “give me.” My mother would buy sweet meats
and matching barrettes for ponytails that sprawled
from my head like little black arms. I remember
sausage links in bright string, lynchpins, and gummed
toffee that stuck just right to tooth and rib. Today I met
a twin heart washed in salt; an older version of my twenty-
two year old self, where time had pressed little craters
hard on the skin. She was in the hardware aisle wearing
white gloves with pearl buttons, and water dripped
from her skirt like small golden scales leaving a trail
due northeast. Questions rose to the roof of my mouth,
but the topsoil was too thick to speak clearly. I wanted
to say something between a whisper and a prayer
about this store, was their rain outside, this stitch in time,
and this burst in the brain. I wanted to excavate my almost
me chest-deep, but words and letters quickly came undone.
We stepped together as if by surprise, a double exposed
photograph or painting of something caged. I grabbed a
piece of chalk and black marker to outline the cross of our
bodies and to take note of her scars.
____________________________________
Cynthia Manick received her MFA in Creative Writing from the New School. She is a Cave Canem Fellow.
