Cathlin Noonan

Cathlin Noonan (she/her) is a poet based out of San Antonio. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Broadkill Review, Broad River Review, Crazyhorse, Pidgeonholes, Ruminate, and Small Orange Journal among others. She is Assistant Poetry Editor for The Night Heron Barks and Associate Editor for Ran Off With the Star Bassoon. She can be found online at cathlinnoonan.com.

Self-Portrait as Inherited Riverine Landscapes

My seed grows translucent roots, wisps—

something phantom as I ask my aunt of our pub 

near the Scovill Plant. I cannot know the gaping mouths

who once watched my grandfather comb the pints, 

who now pock soil under St. Mary’s yard. I taste 

only this burping marsh of sod, compost  

of a town’s last century self, sponge of other plants 

squeezed around my hackled tangles. I know  

the moss that feathers my lungs and tend 

the corkscrew creep of tendril crick in spine— 

bracken basketing up my slump of banks, every one

from the Naugatuck to Ballinskelligs. I twine

the knotted slopes back through Little Blanco’s 

cypress knees to Meramec and up to Hudson mud,  

spiral into Saco until particles sift light 

through the Liffey. Murk cuts my legs at the ankles      

where green shafts of sun die in absorption. 

To see with only feet, to form this way  

each river stone’s edge against another, to slip 

into the dark, to carve my heels upon the shale.

Look to the Mouth, Look to the Source

As if in preservation, she could ward off what starved her, 

waxed beans, carrots, creamed corn–the cellar wall of cans,

a piecemeal garrison. I line up the cards. Is that the key,

the one used to pull storage for meals, returned to housecoat?

–stairs without risers, bony ankles, tissue in pocket–

 She never liked girls. If she could keep the world its way, 

as if in that preservation, she could ward off what starved her,

find meaning in little, hold sacrament but no bread, 

a piecemeal garrison. I line up the cards. Is that the key?

–purse of lips, squint towards door, hands on the stomach swell–  

How hard it is to enter again the pain of childhood–

she never liked girls. If she could keep the world its way,

turn something over on another, plain only from living

(finding meaning in little, holding sacrament but no bread) 

in a time without grace, she could flower in full sun.  

Turn a crank, wind the clock, find a sequence in the sand 

how hard it is to enter again the pain of childhood,

shed the laden adult eye, inhabit mid-moment, mid-breath,

turn something over. On another plane, only from living

the scold or sting of hand, fury of a grandmother, 

can I fold into blank spaces, flip forward the stills, 

turn a crank, wind the clock, find a sequence in the sand.

I shuffle supplies, stitch up the cards. If I could tease motion,

shed the laden adult eye, swallow mid-moment, mid-breath,

a sacrament but no bread. Let me cup this 

dust from atop my dresser, blow it into the sun.

Can I fold into blank spaces? Flip forward the stills.

–one icebox cake sags from early frosting, one sleeping porch–

I shuffle supplies, stitch up the cards. If I could tease motion

from what’s seen, spin the deck I hold. But I cannot 

hear what longing soaked the feedsack pillows. I gather

dust from atop my dresser, blow it into the sun

above her sink. Take my mind’s hand, switch its grip.

–one icebox cake sags from early frosting, one sleeping porch,

one deliberate bite with dentures, one backyard oak split, 

half-felled from being, tilting upwards mid-living–

Hear what longing soaks the feedsack pillows? I gather

these remnants to my ear. I must listen to remember her

over her sink. Take my mind’s hand, switch its grip

for my grandmother’s with the key. Cirrhosis at helm, at 

wrist. Purple blooming on paper skin. What the seeing does.

Half-felled from being, tilting upwards mid-living

room, I pluck her sunk from the hospital bed. Whisper

these remnants in my ear. I must listen to remember her.

What five o’clock clatter settled at this table? 

Some temperature, one evening felt new, an errant chill.

Purple vines on paper skin. What the seeing does

not untuck. Buds drop nearly to dust, dribble seed.

I pluck her sunk from the hospital bed. Whispery

ferns unfurl blue from a temple, silent from a mouth,

as if in preservation, I could ward off what starved her.