by Ellen Hagan
straight through.
Voted most beautiful
small town
in Kentucky.
& I for one
believe
every
word.
What Other People See vs. What I See
To other people,
Kentucky
= country
= hillbilly
= backwoods
= uneducated
= misunderstood
But to me,
Kentucky
= home
= family
= a garden in bloom
= everyone who matters
= my whole life story
They see empty roads
where I see rolling hills.
They see small towns
where I see everyone I know
& who knows me too.
They see small minds
where I see big ol’ hearts
& brilliance.
On the news, I hear “poverty”
& “underprivileged.” But in my home,
I see a table full of fresh food
from our garden & beds made
with quilts from my great-
great-granny’s two hands.
To me, a Kentucky sky is full
of stars & shine. Smells of woods
& fresh earth. Thankful
the people who’ve raised me up
have taught me to love
where I’m from.
Countryfolk
Mamaw says people all the time
underestimate the South. Think
we’re rowdy, unruly & messy,
backward, dirty & unkempt.
Think we don’t know nothing.
Imagine us barefoot, dirt roads,
stupid, uneducated, the opposite
of sophisticated. Can’t invite us
anywhere.
She laughs in downward dog.
Her long silver strands trailing behind.
Mixes her homemade kombucha
& cracks the spine of her newest
cookbook. Open to sourdough bread
braided in twisted wheat goodness.
“I might be country, but I’m worldly
too,” she says, pointing at our map
rising up like a wave behind her.
“Even if I haven’t traveled the globe,
I’ve been there in my books & newspapers
and stories and tall tales. Tell it. I’ve known
this whole wide world better than most.
And I sure know not to poke fun at someone
for the way they drawl. Where they lay
their head. Or the soil they plant their dreams in.”
Not to Brag
Mamaw says, “But our garden
is easily the biggest on the block.”
Chock-full of beans, beets,
& bok choy. Cabbage, carrots,
corn reaching up to the clouds.
Cucumber & dill. Summer
squash & swiss chard. Sage,
hot peppers & potatoes.
Arugula we dress homemade
olive oil with lemon & salt.
The sweetest of all sweet
potatoes. Tomatoes, turnips
& thyme. Okra, onion, enough
for dashes of oregano. Meals
are made hearty here. Sprout-
ing wide, weathering & water-
ing. The two of us with the green-
est of thumbs. Watch it all grow.
Getting Old Is Hell
Mamaw says & giggles into her gloves—
full of dirt & holding one earthworm
slimy & still alive in her fingers.
“Creaky bones and all.
You gotta hold on to something,
anything to even get on up.
Your knees give,
your hips ache.
Your body sinks.
I used to be five foot seven, you know?”
She’s been lying about that forever.
& everyone knows she’s never ever
been taller than five foot four.
“And don’t get me started on how hard it is
to keep my mind fresh. Woooo, cobwebs
for days up there. Can’t remember one
little thing.”
She goes back to digging,
shaking her head just a little.
Jogging memory.
“I wish I was older,” I say.
She pops her good hip out & tilts her head.
“Oh, sweet Beatrice. You have plenty of time.”
“But I want it now,” I say—careful not to whine.
“Wanna be adult now and grown
and know it all.”
At this she really starts in,
guffawing & choking on her laughter.
“You think I know it all? Just ’cause you get older
doesn’t mean you get smarter. Just means
you ask more questions.” I sigh.
Study the day, Mamaw’s small body
curled toward me.
I have so many questions myself,
it feels like I’ll never know any of the answers.
“I guess I just wish I could predict the future.
See if it’s all gonna work out for me.
In the end, you know?”
& as soon as I say it, I see Mamaw’s old hurt.
My dad’s passing away too soon.
& I see how she imagined a future
that never even made it home that night.
& we both hold each other a little longer.
Somehow find a way to be satisfied with today
knowing no tomorrow is ever promised.
Growing
Mamaw says this is the season,
for germinating & burgeoning.
Big words I have to look up
in the dictionary. Because
we are also the only family
on the block who still owns one.
& our ancient, olden-times
computer takes eons
to come alive. “Books last
longer. They’re better,” Mamaw
says. I go on & sigh a long one.
Look them up just the same.
Germinate & Burgeon
To germinate is to shoot forth
straight up from the ground.
Rise into existence. Exist. Begin.
Develop from seed or spore.
From bulb to plant. From kid
to girl to young woman. Develop.
To burgeon is to bud. Quick
with flourish. Sprout & arrive.
Too bad I don’t feel like either
of those words. Still growing.
Still trying to figure out how to
take up space & show off.
Instead, I’m still somewhere
underground. Beneath it all.
Watching everyone else push up
& grow. Rising high all around me.
How I’d love to be: Beatrice Miller,
queen of the amplify. Expansion even.
Tell Mamaw to watch out for me
& my reckless blossoming.
Night Shift
Mom works from seven p.m. to five a.m.
at Flaget Memorial
& says nursing’s the best thing
that ever happened to her.
Acute care & attention, constant contact
& emotional support staff.
Her routine is a roaming rotation
of temperatures, blood work,
maintaining peace & ease.
She supplies what you need
to recover & mend.
Lisa Miller: the human comforter,
maven of meditation & healing.
Mom makes magic out of medicine.
& even though it seems like the whole town
survives & thrives with her help & heart,
sometimes in the middle of the night,
> I wish she were using her skills
to make my restlessness go calm.
What I Need from You
Is what my mom has been saying all summer.
“Beatrice Miller,
what I need from you
is your focus and attention.
Your mamaw is getting older
and wilder and messier
and just all over the place.”
“This is what I need from you:
laundry washed, folded, and put away
dishwasher loaded and running
counters wiped down
trash taken out
beds made
floors cleared
art supplies put away
dolls and books stored up
your desk organized
your closet organized
your bathroom organized
everything organized
you get the idea
right?”
Sometimes my mom
gets in monologue mode
& talks & talks & lectures
& gives rambling speeches
about our home & the state
of our living situation
& the world. & her voice
is a monotonous ringing
that lasts forever.
What I want to say is:
“I get it! Enough!
Stop talking! It’s your house!
You clean!”
But what I say is:
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll do better.
I’ll help out around the house
and make sure Mamaw is okay.
I promise.”
Part Mamaw & Part Mom
Is the way I’ve always been.
Like Mom, I can hide away
from the world with a book
or journal. Get quiet as can be.
But like Mamaw, I can fire up,
get to dancing & singing,
flinging my emotions around.
I go from solo to crowd
easy as can be. From calm
to rowdy. From low to high.
The great copycat. Play it up
or down. Depending on who
I’m with, what’s expected of me.
From still to nonstop. Sometimes
I’m so busy trying to mimic them
that I forget to just be me.
Summer Still
& we ride our bikes for hours.
Bright orange for me. Purple dream
for StaceyAnn & fiery red for Mariella.
We all bought them at the same time. Saved
up from two months of babysitting. Jackpot
as we coast to Rincón Mexicano, the best
spot in town since Mariella’s folks
opened it three years ago. Her mom
waves us in for chips & guacamole. We tell
the tallest tales when we’re together. Laugh
with our mouths wide open. StaceyAnn says this year,
we’ll rule the school. Even that doesn’t sound
cool. But we agree. Dunk more chips, drink—
rounds of Sprite arrive. It’s still summer,
still warm enough to imagine she’s right.
Wanna Catch Crawdads?
Mariella asks. She’s leaned on her bicycle,
the sun a fat glow on her face.
“We could work on our tree house too?
We still got a little more to do
to make it our perfect secret hideout.
& look, I got my abuelo’s tool belt.”
Perfection.
& I barely get my goodbye out, running
full speed to race alongside her bike.
StaceyAnn meets us at the corner, her arms
loaded up with chocolate chip cookies
& Ale-8-1 Limited Edition Orange Cream.
“Yes!” we all shout, tumbling over one another
toward the creek bed. Only takes ten minutes
to ride outta the neighborhood & straight
to our hidden spot—where we can just be
quiet & unknown to all the adults in our lives.
It’s the place I love best, away from it all.
Cutoff jean shorts & raggedy T-shirts:
we’re wearing the perfect summer uniforms.
Flip-flops, feet free & an old upside-down sled
to keep the critters in while we study ’em.
Been spending end-of-August days like this.
Pounding nails & boards to the side
of our favorite tree, just far enough away
so no one can bother us, no one can interrupt.
We’ve hammered in bookshelves & made room
for all the things we collect along the way.
A hammock high above the bluegrass to sit
& watch the day.
“Tastes just like a Dreamsicle,” StaceyAnn says,
popping the tops & handing out a round.
“Small batch, seasonal flavor,” she reads.
To me it tastes just like summer.
& sugar, of course. All the sweetest things
about hoping something lasts forever.
Tree House Where I Hold My Dreams
Long after Mariella & StaceyAnn ride away,
I find myself getting comfortable. Relaxing.
Pull my diary & pen out, start to swing
in our perfectly positioned hammock
that stretches between two tree limbs
& lean my head all the way back.
Try to hold on to this feeling.
“Anything you make
with your own two hands
is worth it,” Mamaw is always saying.
This afternoon, I think she’s right
as I take in our work. The fabric
we’ve wrapped & draped,
the trinkets we’ve placed
in secret parts of our tree.
Small crystals, old dolls & toys,
parts of our lives we don’t play with anymore
but don’t want to forget either.
This space, all our own.
StaceyAnn nailed in an old mirror
to create a kaleidoscope with the sun.
I look right into it—see my reflection
& all the parts that make me who I am
or who I am supposed to be.
Worthy & whole
trust all the parts
put it all together.
Want to make myself shining
and worth it
too.
City Pool
StaceyAnn can do the best backstroke
while Mariella can somersault twice
atop the high dive. I’m awesome
at inhaling loads of nachos with extra
cheese & floating into the abyss. Oblivion.
Beneath all that chlorine, I’m part
mermaid—all flowing & beautiful, part
still me. The parts I still like. Strong
arms & legs. My feet for pushing through.
Underwater, I’m sea creature & girl still
imaginary & real at the same time.
Swim Team Girls
Besides showing off & eating until we’re silly,
the three of us + Zoey Samuels
(who is eleven but acts seventeen)
make up the Bardstown Barracudas relay team
representing the best public pool in the whole county.
Practice happens three days a week
& we hustle into the cool pool
swimming lap after lap.
Whistle blows
Dive
Freestyle
Submerge
Practice
Race
Paddle
Butterfly
Free
Back
Whistle blows
Rest
Float
Glide
Wade
Dip
Crawl
Slide<
br />
Wash
Drift
Our final meet of the summer is coming up.
Coach Crane tells us to sleep hard, hydrate
& eat full meals to keep ourselves afloat.
I’ve Been Thinking
about what “staying afloat”
really means. Above water. With all your breath.
Wondering how to stay unsinkable when school starts.
Not be taken down by feeling left out,
not pretty or smart or grown or mature enough.
Pulled between wanting to stay a kid
but ready to be a teenager. Looking in the mirror
& loving what I’m seeing. Being as fast & strong
& smart as my mom & mamaw say I am.
Believing it myself.
How to be weightless when everything feels so heavy.
Race Day
We stretch our arms to the sky,
run in place. Jumping jacks.
Mariella kickboards across the pool.
StaceyAnn plunges below sound.
We’re up against our biggest rivals:
Washington County Wave Runners.
Even their name makes zero sense.
A wave runner is a vehicle—a watercraft.
It’s not a fish. It’s motorized. Fake fast.
Besides they’re from some fancy
country club that none of us
care a lick about. We gotta beat ’em.
Meanwhile, a barracuda is fearsome
& ferocious. We read all about it.
Designed shirts & hats. Large
& predatory. That’s what we are.
What I’m thinking is:
Can’t touch us.
Lightning below water.
