Two Poems by Tracey Knapp

Piece by Piece

November and the pumpkin on the porch
     has collapsed inward on itself. Only a biopsy
          of my breast tissue this afternoon
could drain the blue from the sky today.
     If only my mother could find remission after years
          of surviving. Her hair grows back
thicker on the sides, but no one
     can tell if her fingerprints will return,
          if the nerve pain in her feet will diminish.
She sits alone in her house on the other side
     of the country, snoozing in her armchair
          while Judge Judy delivers verdicts in favor
of the wrongfully accused on TV. If only
     there was a way to win my mother’s life back
          from the time she’s spent in treatment.
Treat me with some dignity when I must lie on my face
     with my arm and breast pitched through a hole
          in the table. One mammogram after another
until they locate the spot, take a bit to test.
     My mother reminds me I must do it, despite any dread,
          after a lumpectomy in her breast, lymph nodes
removed. I take the dry gulp that must have come for her.
     Piece by piece, I stand a little closer
          to her fear.

*

Long Season

Can’t shake winter this year.
Skipped supper again and still I’m hunched
over my desk as if I’m someone of substance
and determination. If only a cigarette
was hanging out of my mouth, and why not?
A lot has changed: the wine foresworn,
and whatever version of love I might have
hoped for has lost its wick in the wax.

The trees’ leafless frames wobble against
remnants of Pacific wind. Might as well
pull on some jeans and hit the coffee shop,
ask them for a flower in the foam, maybe
summon Spring that way. The barista says, “sure”
but I get a fern. I say nothing, foam on my nose.

The sky looms low over the parking lot. But look—
the trees along the curb are showing signs of yellow,
and the bees stir in their winter clusters.
Give me a bulb about to pop through
the muck. A little green wouldn’t hurt.
Promise me something is about to grow,
and it better be goddamn beautiful.

*

Tracey Knapp lives in the California Bay Area. Her first collection of poems is Mouth (42 Miles Press, 2015). Recent work has appeared in Pinch, Cream City Review, and The Shore. Find her at traceyknapp.com