Tag: Sonya Schneider

Three Poems by Sonya Schneider

~ ONE ART ~ 2 Comments

Desire of the Mind

For him, I ate the eye
of the Hamachi kama
in a little hole in the wall
in Palo Alto. We were young
and almost in love. He said
it was good luck to eat it.
I don’t believe in luck.
But the body! Oh, I believe
in the body. And desire
of the mind.
And since eyes
cradle the brain
in their knowing,
I savored the gooey
outer layer on my tongue
before swallowing
it whole.

*

Those Late-Night Drives

When they fought, when he’d slammed one too many doors
and called her by her maiden name, each vowel a dagger

thrown, my mother would grab her keys and drive away.
Sometimes, she took me with her, and we’d speed in silence

to where the highway burned infinity. It never seemed pure,
her anger, or sometimes, it seemed so pure it might melt

the leather skin off the steering wheel. I was never sure
when we’d return, or if more doors would slam, or if love

might lead them stumbling toward the bedroom.
If I hadn’t known those late-night drives, would I still

have chosen you? That old photograph with your thumbs
pointed skyward, those bright brown eyes looking hopefully

into the camera, despite your parents’ messy divorce.
Even when I’ve driven away, I long to come back to you.

*

Washing My Daughter’s Bra

Mom used to leave her bras swimming
in soapy water, their dark dyes turning
the water black. Then she’d sling
their thick straps onto the neck
of a plastic hanger and let them dry
in the sun. Once, in Italy, I saw a woman
hanging bras from her balcony, her private
world aired like bright, lacy flags.
She never noticed me below,
backpack heavy, my own bra smelling
of sweat and oil. My breasts were young
and firm, easy to carry and, when the time
was right, unveil. But holding my daughter’s bra
now in my hands, I remember
that it wasn’t just my lingerie I ignored.
I left my clothes strewn across my dorm room,
slept on unwashed sheets, dreaming of a freedom
I did not yet know how to manage.
Only after years lying in the low grasses
of neglect, did I learn how to care for myself.
Is this to be her fate, too?
For now, I scrub the supple under cups,
rinse until the water runs clean.
Then I unlatch the delicate hook and eye
and lay the piece flat, careful not to tug
the small silver heart sewn in the center.

*

Sonya Schneider’s poems have appeared in Rattle, The Penn Review, Potomac Review, Rust & Moth, Salamander, Moon City Review, ONE ART, Raleigh Review, SWWIM, Tar River Poetry and The Tusculum Review, among others. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has placed in the Patricia Cleary Miller Award and the Laux & Millar Prize. A graduate of Stanford and Pacific University’s MFA in Poetry, she lives in Seattle with her family.

Three Poems by Sonya Schneider

~ ONE ART ~ 2 Comments

Climbing Out Windows

For a while, I dyed my hair henna red,
wore old man pants cut off at the knee

and spent all my babysitting money
on a pair of 8-eye Doc Martens

that I never broke in. My friends
ditched class to smoke out

behind the teriyaki joint
while the boys ollied off curbs,

trying to impress the popular girl,
whose belly button stud sparkled

like a star above her low-rise jeans.
Once, when I was sleeping over

at a friend’s, we climbed
out her window and walked toward

the boardwalk lights and the salty smell
of dead fish. When we ended up

at the star-studded girl’s apartment,
her dad and brother sat hunched

at a table, cleaning handguns
in a haze of pot smoke,

their talk hushed and angry.
I spent that night stoned and listening

to the sound of rags wiping metal,
trying to hide behind a mask

of mauve lipstick. But once I climbed
back through my friend’s bedroom

window, the fear I’d hid rushed in.
When sleep finally came, it was swift,

and in my dream, I learned
to walk through doors.

*

Family Tree

The fall of my Uncle Rick was not his love
of taxidermy, rather the way he cut
his three siblings from his rib.
My father found a starving cat hiding
under a dead woman’s bed.
He gave her to me wrapped
in a red blanket—I named her Rainbow.
I was twenty when Aunt Ti swallowed
a bottle of Haloperidol – the sound
of her hitting the kitchen floor
still rings in my ears. Once,
on a full moon, Mom hunted
for seashells in the Negev.
Now she tucks in my aging brother,
their bedrooms connected by a narrow hall.
Zede’s birth name was Shlomo,
meaning peaceable. He changed it to Allan
when he enrolled in the war.
His mother was short but had hands
the size of sunflowers. Bubby kept
kosher plates on the top shelf.
All four of their kids have dark brown hair,
but only one believes in God. He lives
in Omaha, where his dogs roam
the shallow hills of snow.
Sometimes I remember to gaze
at the stars, but I’m always disappointed
if I don’t see one shooting across the sky.
I expect to witness startling encounters.
Like the Twin Towers toppling
just blocks from my work.
People walked north that day,
stopping at corner markets
for toilet paper, beer and bread.
I remember with crystalline detail
the time I met a clairvoyant,
but I don’t recall what she foretold
about my future.

*

My daughter explains the patriarchy

to my other daughter on the drive home from the beach.
The patriarchy is a society led by men, she says,
in which, sadly, women
are not allowed to hold power –
this is most societies.
I’ve never told them about the time my boss
pushed me against the wall, his breath reeking
of tuna fish. He held me pinned for just under
a second, long enough for fear and betrayal,
those twins some ancient woman birthed
and has spent a lifetime paying for. That was the last day
I worked for him. On the ride home, my youngest
has to pee. I pull the car to the side of the road
and guide her behind a Douglas fir,
but she is afraid someone might see her.
I pull down my shorts and squat,
legs grounded, bottom back.
Let them look, I say. If they dare.
For the rest of the car ride, they stare quietly
out the window. They make me think of the sea
anemones we saw last summer, luminescent
creatures who’ve learned to guard themselves
against every unwelcome touch.

*

Sonya Schneider is a playwright and poet living in Seattle, WA. Her poetry can be found in Catamaran Literary Reader, SWWIM Every Day, West Trestle Review and Mom Egg Review, among others. She was a finalist for the 2022 New Letters Patricia Cleary Miller Award for Poetry and her micro chapbook, Hunger, was shortlisted for Harbor Review’s 2023 Jewish Women’s Prize. She is a graduate of Stanford University and Pacific University’s MFA in Poetry.