The history maker, and While We Go On

Abstract

The history maker, and While We Go On Billie Swift (bio) The history maker stands at the kitchen counter with a bowlfull of peaches and a knife. He picks out a peachtakes up the knife and makes a small slice in the skin.He eases the knife under, begins peeling backlarge pieces, stopping from time to timeto flick them into the sink. Once the peelis removed he takes a firm hold of the slipperyfruit, finds the center crease, slides the blade in.He lands the edge of his knife against the edgeof the pit and follows it all around. He sets the knifedown. He wants two hands for this. He digshis fingers into the cut and pulls the two halvesapart, gently at first, until the loosening becomesa chorus of soft rips. He extracts the pit, sets the twohalves on the counter, picks up another peach. [End Page 48] While We Go On The trees are full of fog. I have four hours to myselfand I want to fill themwith dried beans. How is it the world looks biggeron a cloudy day? When every color is graythe sky looks full of itself. Before my grandmother diedshe looked like a wet cat that skinny and scared. Her pillows. The rustle of her yellow sheets. ___ I always call when she's asleep. While it rings, I watch the birdstake it one fissure at a timealong the blue. Let's go far away,to a moon broken only by water. I hear the Carolinas are nicethis time of year. I hear the tips of her fingerswill turn blue. [End Page 49] Not gone, I'll saywhen my daughter asks. Or some other sound. ___ How easily her ring, blood-warmedand gold, slidesfrom her loosened skin, how her fingers peckher sheets, while we go oncrouched in the sharp windof this spring's unexpected freeze blooms covered in froststems broken under the weightof late ice, waitingfor our gold to drop. ___ Her last breath, months in the taking,finally and for good. Someoneshould tell the family. Alone in the clarity of routineday, our ritual of darkness, my heavyeyes work to quiet his arms,hands, feet. [The sound of the door. The sound of someone standing still. The sound of someone still standing.] My son's easy breath. Empty curve of fingerstoward empty palm. [End Page 50] [The sound of someone standing still. The sound of someone still standing.] When all the breath is gone, whenthe final rush of blood flows through the heart, slows to a crawl, runs dry, when the heartpresses its nothingness through,what does the mind do? What is there leftto surrender? [The sound of the door. The sound of someone stepping through.] [End Page 51] Billie Swift Billie Swift is the author of the chapbook Everything Here (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2019). She lives in Seattle, Washington, where she is the owner and operator of Open Books: A Poem Emporium. Copyright © 2020 Middlebury College Publications