Dormancy

I felt sorry for middle-school nuns at blackboards,
draped black as if mourning labia’s premature
burial. I couldn’t imagine giving up
on the quest for flesh before unfolding the map.
What happens to unstimulated nerves?
Uneaten food ferments itself. At forty-five
my body is the powder-blue bowl of a filled-in
swimming pool. Does the kitchen
of a demolished house savor the last
meal that steams it up? What happens
to a prayer bubble-whispered under chlorinated
water? Shuttered restaurants leave their
final menus online like wedding photos.
What happens to unstimulated taste buds?
Maybe the nuns were right—learning
to eat what little was on their plate. Buried treasure
still shines in its wooden crate like new trees
napping inside stone fruit. What happens
to all the water pumped from all
the Ohio September swimming pools?
At forty-six, I still can’t fold the Ohio map
back to my glovebox the way it was. Plant
peaches in my new soil, with their unchlorinated
juice. I’ll flavor myself without being tasted.

Ohio born and raised, Kerry Trautman’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. Her books are Things That Come in Boxes (King Craft Press 2012,) To Have Hoped (Finishing Line Press 2015), Artifacts(Nightballet Press 2017,) To be Nonchalantly Alive (Kelsey Books 2020,) Marilyn: Self-Portrait, Oil on Canvas(Gutter Snob Books 2022,) Unknowable Things (Roadside Press 2023), and Irregulars (Stanchion Books 2023.)