i.
I learn to quilt then forget. The half-done quilts
pester me remind me that the point was
my grandmother—the point was Livingston
and my great aunts held down drowning
by Her winds—the point was to make something
to bring back to the babies that in some way
belong to me. The point was that quilts
take a long time. A year even. More.
//
I’ve got a stink on me that I didn’t come up with—
mycorrhizal and sticky. The stink came all this way with
me. Held on.
When I fear that purple girl in me—
the one who kicks and spits and bares her teeth—
I go back to before she was even made
to the peaty before things—
to the first stirrings of my very own animal
ii.
When did I start cutting stone fruit like mom—
all sopping parts in the palm—
knife working in circles knife palm & thumb knowing
the perfect pinch and cleave knowing those moon shapes? When—
//
I’m making up a home as I go along I’m making
art only some of the time I’m hoping art can be made
out of all my moon parts—ossifying to make
the home. I’m wishing for permission to be a
horse to be forgiven for always wanting to go
back—forgiven for knowing my home and wanting.
iii
Right sides together right sides kissing softly.
Press seams open to find purple girl—
to find animal and pit.
//
The point is sitting together—my sister, the animal,
and me. The point is a needle and thumb working
little magics. The point is wanting my baby to look
just like her. The point is the middle—
the center is holding—
holding fruit and animals all at once. The point is
to make art and hope. The point is to not forget.
iv
I go back I go back to the original dewy daymark
the psychic scream that made mom and
her mom and her mother’s sisters I make art
and the moon and maybe a home.
The animal looks in on me and I go back.
There I am told that it doesn’t have to be this way—
that people drown in puddles people drown in creeks
six inches deep that standing up is an option—there
I am given permission my horse. There there you silly
girl all moon parts and no way home.
The problem is believing the problem is finishing
the quilt that was never going to die with you.
v
Press seams toward the darker fabric—
otherwise you create shadow press into my tissue—
my pit—and go back home.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 26, Issue 6.
Kate Garcia is a poet living in Southern California. She received her MFA from the University of Montana in 2022. She is a quilter, bartender, and dog mom. You can find her poems in Gulf Coast Journal, The Florida Review, Fugue, and elsewhere.
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