Back to Issue 5

Grace Alvino

The Poet Prays to Her Muse for Forgiveness

                In the style of Carrie Jerrell’s ‘The Poet Prays to Her Radio                 for a Country Song’
 
Deliver me from diesel fuel, the gas
he smeared beneath his nose; come drag me out
of six-week droughts we watered down with The
Supremes. I need a sign that I am done
with nettles stuck inside my knees, with Bach
drawn out on steel guitar, his blisters slick
with baby oil. I want to stitch new soles
inside my boots and have the leather curl
from cornmeal stains, to scald his prints right off
my palms and slice down my bare fingernails.
I’m naked now with my shoes tied and smeared
down with Bone Suckin’ Sauce; I pray to gods
at each rest stop, hope they forget I hit
him first. O muse that chews on Cougar Green,
please make me turn off Killer Queen, let me
forget how he could hit each bar and hum
the chorus through his teeth. Help me let go
of Coppertone and bandaged ribs he wrapped
at home, the Vicks he rubbed between my toes
to help drain out my ragweed cough. Let me
forget I razed him down, tied up his hands
with sheer nylons that welded welts into
his wrists; let me forget he called my name.
O muse, give me a chance to bleed free from
the man who wrestled me on asphalt till
I begged to sing a Hallelujah, Jeff
Buckley’s. Help me preserve my share of dirt,
the grit he tongued right off my teeth; make me
a sinner far from home, but baptized in
coal ash and bleach. Sing Axl Rose the whole
way north, soprano singeing my slate clean;
help me erase the sound of that man’s name
who let me drown so slow so I could breathe.

Grace Alvino is originally from southern New Jersey, but she currently lives in Baltimore and works at the Johns Hopkins University Writing Center. On the weekends, she drives an ice cream truck.

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