TWO POEMS by NATALYE CHILDRESS
in the valley
“a place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest, remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself, shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes it in his image.” - joan didioni’m in south philly, walking down east passyunk in february — past the pathology of devotion, past the corner of south 9th, lit up by the rivaling signs of pat’s and geno’s, the crown and flames forever in a standoff. i continue on, bypassing the vendors at the italian market feeding broken-down produce boxes to the flames shooting out of barrels to stave off the cold, plumes of black smoke infesting the air. past the now-misnomered singing fountain and ray’s happy birthday bar, past the acme grocery store on land that once housed moyamensing, past countless street poles still adorned with christmas wreaths. at some point on this route, i stop to take a picture of my reflection in a window. the version of me staring back at me is sepia. behind me, a fire hydrant and a crosswalk, and a brick building made of the same brick of the rowhomes i passed on the blocks between back there and here, where i am reflected. these homes rarely have tofani doors, but often have windows with amateur artwork, glowing plastic lights, candles to the patron saint of whatever you can think of, pictures of the virgin mary and pope francis, ceramic oddities and bobbleheads, windowclings from two holidays bygone and faded from the sun, and occasionally a cat. i send you the picture, me with a coffee in one hand, shopping bag hanging from the crook of my arm, sporting sunglasses to dull to the winter glare, and later you’ll respond, telling me you hope i have fun in big baltimore, calling me an east coast didion. i’m no centrist, but i take the compliment. further down, a parking lot mural advertises passyunk pears, prosperity onions, fresh flowers. the manhole covers on the street depict a native american chief, a racist callback to the lenape who lived here long before little saigon and the italian social clubs were ever a thing. i pass a sign that says “palestine will free us all,” and i have no doubt. i’m here in the place between the hills, in the place bordered by the delaware and the schuylkill, somewhere i have never lived but have learned to love.
confession
when you get out, i want to be
the one who picks you up —
the first person on the outside
who hugs you with their whole
body. it’s not a competition,
but. every saturday, for sixty minutes,
it’s you, me, and a voice telling me:
you have a prepaid call, this call will be
recorded, you have sixty seconds left,
you have thirty seconds left. i want
more than four fifteen minute-calls.
i want more than two hours a
year on the dance floor. you gaze
at me as self-evident, as you prioritize
the unrequited — and i’m just
waiting for you to see i’m real.
you’ve never felt safe enough
to love. but in this pedagogy of
tenderness, i’m trying to show
you how. i’m crossing the old
line, traversing s-shaped
bodies of water to see you.
there’s a gap the penn and camden
lines can’t bridge. you’re his dirty
little secret, and i’m writing poems
about you. wait, hold up, stay. you
know you’re my muse, and i’m on
the public stage singing how
they’ll never love you like
i love you.
Natalye Childress (she/her) is a Berlin-based editor, writer, translator, and sad punk. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize and appears or is forthcoming in Twin Bird Review, wildness, Half Mystic, Burial Magazine, Dodo Eraser, and elsewhere. She's also the EIC of electric pink and coastlines review. Find her at www.natalye.com.