University Press of Kentucky New Poetry & Prose Series

Poems

Rachel Danielle Peterson

• Publisher: The University Press of Kentucky
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9780813174457
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

Haunting and candid, A Girl's A Gun introduces a poet whose bold voice merges heightened lyricism with compelling narrative. Steeped in storytelling traditions, the poems in Rachel Danielle Peterson's debut collection exhibit linguistic dexterity and mastery of form as the poet mixes lyrical paragraphs, sonnets, and interview-style poems with free verse.

Hey Yvonne! The memoree of some stranger
his shoulder's shadow plunges inta our place:
thunk, thunk. Run! Mother's vowels pierce haze.

Mother, can we distil the pink threads, fabric,
black ball cap, the odor of Bud Light, fills the door
she walks through, dust, Mamma. Dust is all we is

Taken together, the poems present the coming-of-age story of a girl born in the mountains of rural eastern Kentucky, tracing her journey into a wider world of experience. While the early poems are steeped in Appalachian speech and culture—a hybrid of a child's diction and regional dialect—the language shifts as the collection progresses, becoming more standard. The speaker engages with hard issues surrounding gender and violence in contemporary life and explores what it means to be an artist in a culture that favors a literal interpretation of reality. Exploring issues of identity, place, and the call to create, this collection tackles subjects that will shock, touch, and bewilder readers while giving voice to an underrepresented and perhaps even unprecedented perspective in poetry.

Part 1

The Gun

Overlook Kentucky

Dayton, Ohio, 1984

Sie reinigen sich mit Feuer.

“They cleanse themselves with fire.”

Sometimes, it turns up ta Mama in polyester,

Those invisibles then or otherwise who kin

read her face, mine. Him, callin’ fer Yvonne.

Hey Yvonne! The memoree of some stranger

his shoulder’s shadow plunges inta our place:

thunk, thunk. Run! Mother’s vowels pierce haze.

Mother, can we distil the pink threads, fabric,

black ball cap, the odor of Bud Light, fills the door

she walks through, dust, Mamma. Dust is all we is

the knock leads inta porch, cement on bare feet,

only a stuffed Bambi knows lips open in prayer

ta a vengeful gawd while another immaculate sun spills

towards another dawn. Somehow, this small pulse

will tense up quite at any doctor too too close ta throat,

toes, all me then blurree, before he gives me paired spectacles.

Whut will linger on, or be charred like barbecue,

tastes I still savor? Wracked on coals, memorees remind us

of shame an’ need. Seen, unseen, even gloree can sting.

Journal Entry #1

The Bastard

He knows ’bout his-stor-ee. Say every Thing came outta wahtuh. Laugh, an … Scales? Some maybe. Don’t know … ask to strip, show minners low. Decide by those learned men … I tol’ ’bout Greeks and glassee sea. Home to Gospel, not desert straws. Told in Pairee. Home was where we held hands, wishin’, ’neath an ole tree. That rivuh, prongin’ hoary roots, cinched like a priest’s hands, those claws. We lived in wahtuh with two heads. Gawds, jealous of it, cut every-One inta two, maybe ta breed harsh, air becomes salt in the mouthe, the ache fer sun. Complete—nah. We jus’ long.

Why I Wasn’t Supposed to Be Born

Encephalitis it whuz, he caught at Christmas.

They say only miracle can save.

He’ll be a vegetable, or dead,

not the best Christmas surprise.

On a loveseat, Maw braids sis’s hair inta coils,

a stern gawd, she will glare

as I square, swing, nudge drawers

too loud. I will get born, earn that look,

from the eyes blue as lamp-shade.

They will brighten everything,

I wanna be rough like a beard,

ta hurt mine enemy the way

Paw does, cleave tinsel and IV’s the same

as he did on Christmas Day.

This terrible need to know, be known.

Journal Entry #2

Judge

… Objective, eye the women eve-va-re wear showing cinched waist. Bared, yessir! Made to milk, as somebody say. Should I docile, open my shirt, counter, whut Gawd needs dugs? Good enough joke. Do ya think true who made such a fuss, made us ta bear, breed out of a squall. Pity-full, full of soul, though, we needs no curve, no linen. Whut then, who, do angels do?

Burn

Just sneak. Smoke with me. Turn upward, imagine billions of star

system, galaxies minute as violet flickerin’ at dawn or sunrise.

Beneath us? Fumes from the tip arches there, beyond even this.

Dangerous as fire is, but who can settle when worlds come a

knockin’?

Solid as a door, ya stretch, glimpse long, eye-full ‘a solar wind,

The heft of it whispers like a minster’s child. Bad is flesh! Bad—!

Yer reply? Ya puff as that cigarette heats against two splayed fingers,

measures yer gawddamn mistakes, beyond countin’.

A hair pulls fire from the ash. Ya ain’t no dandy-man ta claim ta

know the pure from the stained. Not yer strength, girl.

Breathe, all ya know is this small thing. Lighters, if yer brazen,

will hurt some lips even if ya burn nothin’ but the cleanest

kerosene.

Journal Entry #3

Whut

do ya believe?

Green-blue-gold-flickey iris flayed away ’til mere holy eye flinches whole.

Violet, water unknown … oh, ripples like twin moles on showder, hidden lights,

fairy-lights in the eye heal wrinkles, scars, life-times, easy as coral, pink nail-tips on a kettle,

tea, even stains wash sometime. Or they don’t.

New Year’s

Back from School

Exhale if...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half title
• Title
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• Part 1. The Gun
• Part 2. The Girl
• Acknowledgments
• Notes