Tricia Knoll is an Oregon (US) poet whose work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. Her chapbook Urban Wild focuses on humans and wildlife interacting in urban habitat. Ocean’s Laughter (2016) combines lyric and eco-poetry to look at change over time in a small Oregon coastal town. Website: triciaknoll.com
The Screech That Took You
Blame me. I’m the one. My headache
not knowing where you went.
You may have said you must go,
emphasize must when your path
in concrete headed east.
You turned that way willing
and awake to passages
that whisked you underground,
into tunnels under fluorescent lights
that made scummy tile look like old frosting.
The escalator descended to a platform,
a ninety-degree turn, a stile, a walk on more tile
and you went. My yell was too choked
to insult the subway screech that took you.
when I cannot find you.
0 Sunset Lane
I had a black leather address book.
I wrote in pen. It got messy.
There was no one and nothing amazing in it,
no red doors on Wylie Avenue,
Baker Street, or No. 9 ¾ at King’s Cross.
I was born on Sumac Road in a Chicago suburb.
I rode my bike on streets called Barberry, Acorn,
Poplar and Red Oak carved out from corn farms
and forests of hickory, oaks, and ash.
Every new England has a Church Street.
I lived on one across from Edgewood Park.
Then decades on a Portland avenue with a number name
in a grid city. Vacationed on Beeswax at the Oregon coast
where shipwreck ballast wax landed from a galleon
from Manila. Orchid Street for a love affair. Lancelot Lane
intersects Knightsbridge in a goofy development
with no straight lines, swervy Ash Creek behind my house.
Now this new address, a bare lot in Vermont.
Ferns line a path through white pine and birch,
past scraggly sugar maples to my peninsula
into Lower Pond. There the broken-wing goose
watches evening come to ice.
0 Sunset Lane,
I made it
to an old woman’s address.
of the pond
I have faith in the night,
the blank page of my journal
beside the clock, water glass, a pen.
Let a dream guide me
in and out of rooms too small.
Let me be late or unready
for the outer edge of my life
as it unfolds and refolds.
Be a hatchery of new.
My bed molds to my hip
and sinks under my arm,
the heft of my head.
I have faith in the night.