Knocked Up
1967
She loves the hot sticky deep earth smells, the greedy gulping way it feels
over and over in the back seat of his old Dodge where they tangle and knot
like snakes. She’s late—checks her panties, the calendar, one month then two,
and her nipples hurt, she can’t bear the smell of eggs and pees her pants.
Everything is furtive—midnight calls, saltines in her pocket, failing marks.
She fails everything except the baby she carries inside her like a small purse.
Her mother is curled in a favorite chair smoking and content when she tells.
There is no air in the room, like being on the moon, every step heavy,
words tinny and broken. It is done. Of course they marry. As if everyone
doesn’t smirk I knew it—why else so fast and in March, a dreary month
with leftover piles of dirty snow. The wedding photos are in a shoebox—
her puffy face, teary eyes, her mother’s stiff smile. All grim except
for Granny in her red pillbox hat who seems to be having a good time.
Shape-Shifting
1967
She wonders how a body can change so,
like a waxing moon hidden
in an awful polyester smock.
She does not glow
like Mona Lisa
or the Madonna
but sweats in a Florida
three-room rental
where she no longer cares
about cockroaches
the unmade bed
how late she sleeps
how late he comes home
or where he was.
She disappears into turquoise walls,
stands heavy like a cow,
no longer buoyant,
having forgotten the wind
to be sure.
House on Fire
Guam 1968
Their house burned to the ground
along with everything inside
every book fork pot cup picture
the rats that foraged the kitchen
termites that buzzed in the walls
the gun under the bed.
It was always smoldering
always stunk of something rotten
sweat-soaked sheets
beer and cigarettes.
It was drunken and wailing
it was doors slammed shut
and don’t come back
it was hard rain and rain and rain
it was nowhere to breathe
no walls to lean on
no shelter from the unblinking
moon that marked restless
days passing
and endless nights.
The Sensible Thing
1970
it is raining hard and the moon
is the only light when her sister
drives her to Detroit that Sunday
drops her at a storefront where he
motions her in without asking
her name takes the cash
without asking her name
tamps his cigarette
presses her belly
spreads her legs
cold metal breaches
her tightlipped
her cloistered
her sacred
the agony of it
the sorrow of it
his breath between her legs
hissing as he angles to see
the hollow parts of her
speculum tenaculum curette
the stink of his breath
working working
until she hears a ting
of metal against metal
like a Sanctus bell
hears rain beating roof
feels the gasp of blood
where the creature should be
where a pillow soft place should be
where an ocean should have
held it afloat.
Suzanne Frank’s poetry reflects the hardscrabble journey of a single mother in the 70’s. Her poems have appeared in journals and anthologies, including Sow’s Ear, Another Chicago Magazine (ACM), and Stray Bullets. She is currently finalizing a collection of poems about women and girls whose lives were hijacked pre-Roe v. Wade.