Three Poems

Nina Kensicki

The following are three poems by April “Nina” Kensicki, a senior Professional Writing major at York College and Legal Studies minor. She has been published three times in The York Review. “Dead Dog” was published in 2014 and “Words My Mama Never Said” was published in 2015. The last poem, “Bloody Son,” is Nina’s most recent work. She hopes to one day live happily with six pugs.

Dead Dog

After the dog died, my dad finally put the house up for sale.

Mom had been gone for years, but to see

his one friend dead was the anchor

around his neck. He came in with streaks of salty

tears running down his face. We went out together to see the wind

ruffle the damp fur as the dog laid in our driveway. We waved

goodbye. I, thankful to move on, jumped into the waves

of the beach behind our house. The “for sale”

sign was up before dinner. That night a windy

storm blew our patio chairs out to sea.

My dad cried as he brought in the wooded, cracked, salty

remains. From my bedroom window I saw him throw a piece like an anchor

into the sea. The next week we had lots of people look. By the anchor

that hung above our fireplace was where my dad would wave

and stand the entire time. The realtor showed the salty

abode to prying neighbors not interested in the sale.

It was a beautiful home, right by the sea.

A home with perfect rolls of wind.

When they left dad drank more than ever before and the wind

heard his screams. They dropped into the ocean like anchors

not tied to a ship. He kept saying how he needed to leave the sea.

He couldn’t stand the sight of the waves

mocking him to join them and sail

to freedom and escape in the air filled with salt.

He hated and felt on his tongue the burning salt,

a reminder, and he hated the skin grinding wind.

He burnt the boat right after the dog, so he couldn’t sail.

All that was left was my mom’s favorite anchor

hanging above the fireplace. He considered feeding it to the waves

to stop the mocking and calling from the sea.

People who didn’t care began to notice and see

how crazy he was. He didn’t care which rubbed the salt

in the wound. He laughed and waved

the night he dropped me off at a friends before heading to our windy

house on a hill. He stared at that anchor

then lit a match that put to flames the sign marked “for sale”.

We looked for places for sale that weren’t by the sea.

The anchor that didn’t burn reminded my father of the salty

wind and waves we left behind.

Words My Mama Never Said

When I think of him

I don’t think of whiskey

or the steady beat

of up-drink-down-pour.

All I think of is our heart beats

thumping along together

and wishing he’d stop asking me

if I wanted more.

When I think of him

I don’t think of beer

or the steady beat

of up-drink-down-pour

or the cans piled high

in the back-yard recycling.

I don’t think of slurred words

or him sloppy, falling to the floor.

When I think of him

I don’t think of scotch

or the steady beat

of up-drink down pour.

I think of you growing

inside me. And his laughter,

not the unfulfilled promises

or the lies he swore.

When I think of your daddy

I don’t think of the years

you’d be disappointed

and alone or the ways

he’d hurt your soul.

Now all that echoes in my ears

is up-drink-down-pour.

Bloody Son

I ran into the mailbox and got seven stitches

in my forehead when I was a kid. The cloth

of my batman t-shirt was soaked in blood. It weaved

between the bright blue and dark black thread.

I cried when the doctor pierced my skin with the needle.

I screamed out of fear, not pain. He didn’t use a thimble

like my mom did when she sewed. With a thimble

on her finger and a steady hand she made straight stitches

in blankets like the one she made me after the needle

at the hospital. For years I slept cocooned in the cloth.

Back then the family was still close. Each of us threads

keeping each other together, tightly woven.

We were perfect unless one of us broke the weave.

It happened one day when my mom didn’t wear a thimble

while she was working the fine thread

of a project. She stopped the even stitching

when she saw the bruises on my arm and the dingy clothes

I wore. A small bubble of blood puckered where the needle

Broke her unprotected skin. She dropped the needle

and thread. It unraveled at her feet, weaving

a complex tangle similar to the cuts under the cloth

of my t-shirt. There was screaming then. She threw her thimble

at my father in a weak attempt to pull together stitches

already cut loose. The stray threads

frayed mercilessly. She still hasn’t sewn new thread

into that piece. Somewhere on the beige carpet there is a needle

waiting to puncture a bare foot. I often thread

my fingers in my lap when I sit in that room. The woven

mess of my hands distracts me and covers my heart like a thimble.

Whenever I come home my mother stares at my clothes

in disgust. She doesn’t care like she did when blood soaked my clothes

the time I hit my head. Now when I cut myself, threads

of blood leave my skin in pleasure. I don’t use a thimble

when I inject myself with a self-medicating needle

either. Now I sew like my mother used to weave.

Mine tear apart and hers had always stitched

together. Her even stitching on cotton cloth

were the same weaving of our family with thread,

now the needles lost, the thimble wasn’t worn.