On the Way to Class
A cockroach three treads up
Rests. Upside down, two
Long black antennae reach
Out from under an eggshell
Skull, skim-coat skin. It
Waves. Barely. I see you,
I say. I’m a fish, it says.
The last flip of a flop
On the dock, almost
Done. Should I do—what?
Nudge? Crunch? Hook? Sigh?
Help yourself before others
For safety, they say. I pass.
I go to class. Greeted there by a
Pair of breasts blossomed
From a tight dark v-neck tee,
Front row. Two scoops of my cone
Sent to the sidewalk last summer
From one faint lick. On descent,
same stairs, I can’t help but scan—
It’s out of place—it’s on the landing—
It’s on its back—it’s still. I am
Moved. I missed my chance—
I have never worn such a tee.
No-one touches the roach. What else
Have I missed? We all look away.
Our skin, eggshell. My skim-coat heart
erupts.
.
What I Don’t Save
I let
Things go like French.
Then complain when I can’t
Sing along with Edith—en rose,
Sa vie.
What I
Tell myself: save
Space on oak shelves for new
Old things, like finger puppets and
Cornets.
Truth is
When I lacked form
Like cream or a runny
Egg, I saved leaves and tickets, just
Not us.
But I
Lived there, outside
The margins and pictures
They took—brown house, white teeth, cups of
Bloomed peat.
Ghosts had
Their bones. Go now.
New river, strong current,
I hear what they hunger to say:
Start time.
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Chapin Cimino writes and teaches near Philadelphia. Besides connection, she loves daughters, risotto, properly made sidecars, cities without skyscrapers, and raising her heart rate. She has written with the Lansdowne Writers Workshop since 2019, and is currently an MFA in creative writing student at Sarah Lawrence College. Chapin’s creative work has appeared in Hippocampus, The Write Launch, The Dewdrop, and The Curator.
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Stone Poetry Quarterly 