A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry

Here You Are

32 A Face to Meet the Faces Here You Are Stephanie M. Pruitt —June 1849 And here you are riding my wind, meeting me around each corner. I turn away and away and sigh you out. But you seep back and back and into my air where you reside when not on top and behind and inside. Out I climb from under your weight, bundling knots of nights into small corners of memory: my side-room cot, the curing barn, creek banks, stables, the east field. At night, I may rise and come, but in my workday, there is no space for your breath on my neck. And yet, here, with my arms full in the parlor, at the spring house, I feel you gripping my cornsilk hair (glory, you say), wrapping it across your palm, wrist and knuckles, pulling me into your smell—earth and talcum and leather. You waft in boiled clothes I wring and hang on the line, the embers I fan for a kitchen fire. You are here, here within each breath and I am without my own space. Outside is no better. Every breeze returns me. I carry you on my shoulders. You are all about my head, surrounding my ears. The wind tosses my hair across my face. I inhale and there, there, here— your smell drapes each strand flowing down my back. It is carrying you. My hair smells of you. You. My hair—black like my mother’s, silken straight like your father’s. Even my hair is another’s. And it is all in your hands. The wind – memory – my neck – you – hair – your palm – my hair – you – in my hair – wrapping – your hands – this smell – gripping – my hair. ...