This week's Poet of the People is Katie Ellen Bowers. Katie is a wonderful Upstate poet. She is a delightful read and a wonderfully entertaining poet to hear recite her work. She is a Charleston native now residing in Heath Springs, SC.
-Al Black
Katie Ellen Bowers is a Southern poet and educator living in a small rural town with her husband and daughter. Her poetry can be found in several literary journals and magazines such as Kakalak, Qu Literary Magazine, and Sky Island Journal. She has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize for poetry. She is the author of the poetry collection This Earthly Body (Main Street Rag, 2024).
Clippings
This morning, I trimmed my daughter's fingernails,
clippings of her growth throughout this week and days
past. Uneven crescent moons—stained and sodden from
sinking her fingers into the inkwells of earth and sky—fall
to my lap, and we speak of yesterday and tomorrow and
of today: her basketball game, fried tofu with fortune
cookies for lunch.
This afternoon, I trimmed my mother’s skin from her fingers,
clippings and peelings from the ring, pointer, and thumb.
Flakes of nameless shapes rest on my lap, as my own
fingers, nervous and nimble, pull a piece of skin away as easily
as petals fall when the summer’s heat has become too heavy;
the sebaceous glands of sweat and oil no longer soften
her skin, and we speak of nothing, the only sound the
click of nail clippers, the heaviness of our breath.
On the Desire to Desire
Lately, it's all just a bunch of mylar
balloons—once blown up, puffed
out, a crinkling of nylon and foil,
maybe even getting caught in power
lines, maybe sparking a fire, maybe
even causing a blackout, but really,
mostly, it's just a deflating yellow smiley
face, stretched out—deformed and
disfigured, unsure of what it was
supposed to be good for all along.
Three Lives
after Sarah Russell
If I had three lives, I’d keep this one
just as it is—each early Saturday on
the soccer fields, each tangle in my
daughter's riot of curls, each syllable
she sounds out as she's reading aloud,
and I'd keep each early Friday night in,
each wink across a crowded room, each
subtle shifting of stacks of books.
I'd keep it just as it is; keep them—
both just as they are.
But me? The other two? Well, in both
I’d run in the mornings, do yoga before bed.
I'd drink protein shakes with flaxseed
and oats and collagen, and then I'd gorge
on chocolate-covered doughnuts. I'd walk
with confidence into each room, laugh
loudly at all my jokes, laugh louder at
all the inappropriate ones, unabashedly flirt
with my husband; I'd never worry if my
eyeliner was too much or if my face looked
weird or if this and if that and if and if
and if and if and if and if and
I would enjoy all the early Saturday mornings
and all the winks across crowded rooms, and
I would just exist in my body and mind and soul,
just as I am.
Off-Beat On-Beat
After all this time
our hearts still
do not beat as one, & resting against
my husband's bare chest
in the early morning hours,
I learn this.
No rhythmic sound
of two heart’s beats
falling
into
a synchronous tempo
together; a perfectly aligned
beat by beat by beat,
& listening, my ear
pressed to him, I hear of
the off-beats and the on-beats
and a slowing and a quickening,
and there are beats
I miss all together—
from my yawn, his feet moving against the sheets,
readjusting our bodies from where arms have
fallen asleep or thighs have gotten too warm—
I listen & I hear
our hearts’ beats beating,
unsure of which
thrum belongs to him &
which belongs to me;
they are not one,
they are together a
continuous quickening
before slowing
off-beats
on-beat.
Carry(, As a Feeling)
It’s true:
It’s hard to carry on with your well-
crafted composure when the weight of
your dying mother is laid upon you; her
swollen belly, holding four liters of fluid,
resting against you; her crepe-paper skin,
maintaining no elasticity, tearing beneath
you. Holding up her body—
Nevermind.
This won't be
about that.
It’s true:
It’s hard to explain, hard to carefully
craft these words that I don't even want,
the ones I hold day-to-day, room-to-room,
breath-to-breath. Take them.
Turn out my pockets, remove my contacts,
pull out my teeth, just gag me until I vomit
up every last word I've choked down so someone
else did not have to bear the weight of:
the anger, the guilt, the sorrow, the shame
from the relief I harbor. It's true
this won't be
about that
either.
Nevermind.
My God, This Is Aging
This is aging? Wearing panty liners because, having stood up too quickly, you pee—just a little and just enough. Getting texts about the passing away of dogs and sending texts concerning the sickness of aging parents: Any updates? Any updates? Anything at all? All whopping point four ounces of twenty-seven-dollar eye cream because a decent night of sleep is only one-sixteenth of what it used to be, but you want to stay up late, want to bathe and shave your legs and have sex only to find your spouse asleep, while also wanting to stay awake to watch the latest episode of Fargo. Taking preventative antacids and ibuprofen that you know you will need after holding up your mother in the ICU, the weight of her illness and age pressed upon you, reminding you of the way time seems to move all at once and not at all.
This, also, is aging? Wearing panty liners because, having laughed too hard at your husband's impression of Hank Hill as you walk by the lawnmowers in Lowes, you pee—just a little and just enough. Getting texts about the accomplishments and the anecdotal snippets of the day-in and day-out. The precise rhythm of each night: the eye cream, the moisturizer, your spouse curling behind you as you settle into sleep, drifting apart and back together throughout the night; the way his hand pats your hip when he wakes to run in the hour before dawn; still being tired from sometimes wanting to stay up late to have sex whether your legs are shaved or not, from staying up late to watch X-Files. Picking up prescriptions for your mother for your father, as it’s the only way you know to help, other than holding a straw to her mouth, letting her drink, so she can speak of and laugh about something that possibly didn’t even happen, and you laugh, too, let go of things that no longer matter, as her laughter sounds as it always has, reminding you of the way time moves not at all and all at once.