Two Poems
Samantha Schnell
Routine Examination
I woke up to the sound
of her calling my name,
which tolled off her tongue
like a spell drawn up from
a dusty book. I became aware
that I was cold, having sweat
through the thin pink robe.
I became aware that there
was a speculum still inside
me. I felt ashamed
about fainting, but there was
something in the way the stern
metal arms of the thing yawned
open without any regard
for its surroundings (which
were as alive as a forest of
springy green-barked trees)
that made my consciousness fall
to the bottom of a dark lake
as fast as an ancient stone.
She thinks she is on a boat,
but she’s in her apartment.
Plants curl over the windowsills
like falling water. An orchid
the color of egg yolk bares its petals
to the heat, which is cranked
to the highest setting, making me
sweat while my grandmother sits
cozy under several thick layers.
“My husband was a terrific lover,”
she tells me, smiling out of her
sweater cocoon, and I’m happy for her.
She forgets where she is,
but she remembers the important things,
like the ship that carried her away
from a war when she was eleven.
Her older sister had claimed the cot,
so my grandma slept on the floor,
closer to the engine fires
and the grumbling propellers
and the quiet creatures
slipping through dark waves.
She used to talk my ear off
with stories about those days,
but now there are long stretches
of silence while her mind is at sea,
rocking like a baby in a cradle.
Sunlight gambols through the windows.
Her parents, her sister, her lover
are waiting for her ashore.
Salt Air
Samantha Schnell is a writer and teacher living in New York City. Her poetry has appeared in Witness Magazine, Sonora Review, Midway Journal, Bicoastal Review, Atlanta Review, and elsewhere.