The moon a blister as the heat turns over. The roots
of their trees will sleep underwater for weeks. I clean
myself in the mirror of dissemination lake. I brush off
chalk and bug sores of dry season. I hang my wet
sarong, full of fish bones, between two trees. Wind off
water summoning a lit up sail. Every road in North
Carolina seems to be named Freedom and without
knowing much it was easier to ignore the intrusion. This
all was once an orange grove. The systems of imported
wind blocks poisoned the loam. We found a washed
out turtle shell but not the plated breast in the flooded
discard. The mud nests of swallows open wounds
above the Lincoln memorial. I can only hope that the
certain sounds I make are enough to call someone home.
The certain sounds I make are enough to call someone home
and when he asks if I am native to my place, I want to
ask him are you native to this place. And when he answers
that he was born on the other coast, that he is not from here,
I want him to feel uncomfortable. I want him to feel need
to validate his body. They don’t know what it’s like to be
called into question. Things to remember: the atrophy after
a night of frost, the moisture on leaves freezes the cellulose,
seed shade grass in early spring beneath the maples, to plant
a tree use half home soil and half compost in a hole 2x the size
so the tree’s roots won’t grow into themselves, root bound.
There is a mirror on the corner that reflects everyone walking
this street back at themselves. You can understand what follows with
out seeing how this all moves over my body. You can gather this.
Sierra Jacob is an MFA candidate at the University of Montana, where she received the Richard Hugo Memorial Scholarship for poetry. Her poetry has appeared in Sonora Review, Yemassee, The Louisville Review, Cream City Review, Pretty Owl Poetry, among others. She was born and raised in Ha`iku, Hawai`i.