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On Dagobah, Kaitlin, & Marita
by Erin Redfern On Dagobah Obi-wan’s in the Hoth system doing his spectral thing, and Luke, eager to please, avid for destiny, will come. Numbered my days in peace among the gnarltrees. As the swamp slugs drag their bodies through the mud, obeying rude electrical impulse, appetitive, dumb, so Skywalker noses his chartless way toward my sanctuary. Pointless the staged parry and feint required to train this aspirant, this dull hope, this rube. I’ve enlisted in a different war, here. I track the jubba bird; I scout the sleen. I read as they were meant to be read the raveling of these bines and webs, trace their rank developments, follow the hum of mandibles and wings until this whole glottal marsh swallows and sings our singular forms. This is the true aspiration. Skywalker’s fate, finally, will not change a thing on Dagobah: will not diminish the biding dark or curb the bogwing’s flight. It will not silence the patter of roots on the roof, dispel this fenny reek, or swab the film that coats my aging sight. Dawn comes, hoary and discreet, turning the walls of my hut into a ghostly swamp egg, and I, Yoda, the greying yolk, revolve inside like a reluctant thought. His arrival returns me to the plot. His fate, his fortitude, his pluck will crack me open. It is my calling. It is the old longing. It is unavoidable. Kaitlin If a casserole, surprise layer of potato chips. If a potato chip, able to hold a disproportionate amount of salsa. If a proportion, as divine as that of the leaf, the nautilus, the curling edges of grief. If a nautilus, one that whirls the dark deep with its own jet propulsion. If a jet, one that hasn’t been built yet. If a building, a rambling house with a secret attic, short staircases, alcoves stashed with essentials: driftwood, rocks picked up on solitary walks, sentences strung like necklaces from their hooks. If a rock, not a geode, but one in which the quartzy veins have traveled up to the surface, following their own mineral argument. If a traveler, one with a soft-sided suitcase. If a suitcase, one that floats when the ship goes down, sustaining its owner until the Coast Guard arrives. If a ship, one with dark flags from the lands you have seen. If a place, the city you can hear when you’re in the deep end, the city on the other side of the grate, the grate to which the key has not been made. If a key, the one that fits its own lock perfectly. Marita She’d rather be at a pool party: I can see the turquoise dream behind her eyes, their floating gaze corralled by serious amounts of kohl liner. Earlier today she sailed through the lunch break, her mouth a bright toy turning in every flirtatious breeze. Now faded by an afternoon’s exposure to problem sets and student-led discussion groups, it drifts and bumps against her chin. Frankenstein sits on the desk between us, a heavy goose that won’t lay. She sighs. The brief mascara flicker when she understands the age at which its author bedded her father’s friend and brought her creature to life can’t save this one stillborn afternoon. An early twilight approaches; she and I pick our way across Walton’s Eurasian tundra, featureless as the front of this overblown Norton edition. (Do we really need one more khaki cover, one more perplexing introduction to stall the cumbersome caravan before it rolls out?) My rucksack’s stuffed with rations; hers displays its slack like a flag of surrender, the canvas tongue flapping with the sound sandals make smacking the warm surface of a wet pool deck. I’ll throw her a Slim Jim. She’ll sigh again. Anytime, anywhere, anyway, she’d rather be at a pool party. |
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