Marianne Szlyk

At Rock Creek Quarry

 

Sirens weave a white web
around the park, containing it,
binding it to the city.

The rocks in this corner
were rejected by the builders.
They are the mistakes, the misshapen.

Wet, neon-green moss slides down
like boys’ piss or spray paint
on the dull, marble blocks

that did not make it
to the blindingly white cathedral,
and the luminous landmarks downtown

visited by tourists every day,
even in winter.  These rocks stunt
the trees, even in summer

when other trees shade streets
near Georgetown.  I expect poison
ivy to twine the park’s

witchy trees or to crawl
onto the path.  Without leaves
of three, the vine hides.

I expect to see Chandra
Levy’s skeleton shattered behind
a stained stone, her hair

like a bird’s nest  matted
with twigs, dirt, and gravel,
her ghost warning all women,

even young crones like me,
to flee this winter landscape
 of scattered stones and trees,

this park so distant from
the city where women can run
protected by sirens.


Originally published in Of/With

 

One Spring Morning at the Historic Icehouse

The perfect cube of ice descends.
Having wrapped it in plastic for protection,
volunteers are lowering it
 into the historic icehouse.

The perfect cube chills this brick chamber
large enough for dozens of cubes
in the days before this icehouse
was historic, when no tourists
came to Florida.

Rough to the touch, red clay walls
protect this cube.
It will never melt.
The cube’s chill keeps
mold and moss
from forming on the walls.

The icehouse smells of nothing
but cold, nothing
but straw and the dirt floor.
Unlike the zoo’s dazed baby elephant
or the polar bear with yellowed fur,
it appeals to the tourists.

Lowering the perfect cube
by means of a historic hook and pulley,
the volunteers forget
the thick air outside

as imperfect oranges
and grapefruit spoil,
the corpse flower blooms,
and tourists’ overheated
cars crawl
past this historic site.

Shivering, not sweating,
the volunteers
forget this spring morning,
these air-conditioned years.


Originally published in Contemporary American Voices

 

At The Gateway to the Arctic

You told me not to take any of
the free paperbacks on the table.
Carry in, carry out, as if we were camping.

Listening to you,
as always,
especially that summer,
I did not.

If I had, despite you,
taken that copy of Arctic Dreams,
would I have driven up the road
later some winter
to find True North?

Would I have seen polar bears
on the edge of town?
Could I have walked
on the shores of Ellesmere Island,
the last stop before
the open waters at the Pole
before landmarks ceased?

Or would I still have stopped short,
my travels on the compass
ending
this one summer afternoon
at the gateway to the Arctic?


Originally published in Blue Hour Literary Magazine