Now, Somehow
Penelope Scambly Schott
My nana dwelt on the davenport
and ruled the world
where even the knives and forks
were afraid of those Sunday dinners.
Because no one had yet invented
forgiveness, memory functions
as fact: a child can die
of being the wrong person.
If I had owned my own wet mouth
I would have been screaming,
but instead,
I offered my small packet of silence
tightly wrapped in maidenhair fern,
in its narrow black stems.
Of course, that was back then.
Now, somehow, I’ve transformed into
that catfish who survived in a cooler
for four whole days.
When they came to knife out my guts,
I was still alive.