n i c o l e p o l l e n t i e r |
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sheep: |
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you wake up surrounded by sheep of every variety – each sheep wears a tag in its ear – a neon label like it is ready to go dancing – the messages they form when they move in the field seem directed at you – the sky is filled with the heavy breath of black mountains – the green of the field is crisp and new – where are you? – hvar? – you scramble to the top of a stone fence and see nothing but more sheep in sight – you alone are a human island – you are the keeper of everything you’ve lived and known but since the sheep don’t care this knowledge is useless – do you exist at all? – you scream and they don’t blink – you could strangle them one by one if you felt like it – no one would ever know |
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i can’t see up to where the vinyl of the car door meets the window, but i know that it goes up and down. night is a film that runs across the windshield, i hum softly to the music it plays. from my seat the car drags streams of red, yellow, and green, and fantastic orbs of bleary-headed streetlights leave their smears across the glass. it is raining, or at least the leaks from the lights say that it is. my father is steering the wheel. he pulls the ribbon that keeps us tight against the edge of sky. he smells like motor oil, aftershave, and the swallow that is left in a crushed-up beer can or what seeps out of a shattered bottle, gold blood. he is slipping. the lights go crazy, and horns shout at us and then fall behind. maybe i cry. his forehead drops to the wheel. maybe i pray. my heart is a leopard testing its cage. i see the jim’s coffee shop sign appear on the windshield as the car peels a circle below it. when i look back at my father, he is out and someone else is pasted on top of him, steering the wheel. she is made from dust when sun shines through it. she is made of light. she is wearing a faded, flowered house dress and her black, black hair is tied in a bun on top of her head. she turns to me and says, i am your grandmother’s mother. don’t be afraid. you are safe. she has a crooked lip. she doesn’t open her mouth to speak. she drives us home. |
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NICOLE POLLENTIER is the author of smolt (Wings Press) and two book-length poems, the frog poem project and the place where you were foreign. The recipient of a Fulbright Fellowship, she spent a year living in Reykjavík, Iceland, and currently lives in Chicago. |
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