The Invasion

by Savannah Stuitje

In the 1990’s television was introduced to a small island in Fiji, Viti Levu
And I wonder, was it like Columbus stepping off his boat
telling the native women to cover their breasts
While his soldiers slipped swords between their legs and planted flags of patriotism deep in the fertile soil in the name of a king?
Was it like the neatly folded blankets presented by army officers to the Mandan Indians in Philadelphia?
Held at arms length
The tightly woven fibers ripe with disease
Leaving their people so warm they fled their pock marked bodies in the night
And were buried in the cool earth til nearly everyone was gone
When the brown cardboard boxes were unloaded and the smell of new plastic filled the room as each machine sputtered to life at the cautious touch of young girls
Their delicate flesh reflected on bulbous television glass as they crowded closer until they could only see the rounded geography of their thighs
Like land waiting to be tamed and quartered for money
Was it like the good intentions of missionaries sent to Africa to introduce their children to the face of God so they might be worthy of salvation from hands that shackled them together
hiding them from the light of day ‘til they forgot their faith
When the girls of Vita Levu pressed their hands to the screen like a cherished religious icon and were met with a crackle of electricity that raised the hairs on their brown arms
Did they feel rebuked?
When did the hills and valleys of their bodies come to feel foreign to the flat of their palms?
Ground to be cultivated and tilled under the firm grip of spinning blades
Ripping the weeds from their soil and sprinkled with pesticides that burn the eyes
When did the voices of their mothers asking them to come to dinner fade away under the opening notes of Beverly Hills?
Were they like the dodo bird
So content to be grounded in paradise that they forgot how to fly away?
Driven to extinction for pure sport by the Portuguese
By the Dutch who carelessly left rats, monkeys, and pigs
that made short work of the dodo
Justice for the girls of Vita Levu who turned their own bodies against themselves
Vomiting up the sins of others who told them beauty is to be achieved
In a series of steps
Because the hands around their necks in the name of perfection
Took away their appetites
And told them strength was going to bed hungry

Found

by Savannah Stuitje

Love is, Her.
It is the feeling in your chest
When she is dripping from the shower
Combing her hair with patient strokes
Blue eyes trained on the liver spotted mirror
As you lay sprawled on her bed
Watching the water drip down her skin and roll over her nipples
Down her stomach
Not quite flat, the hipbones curved maternal to hold
Like offered palms, the well of her
A birthmark beaded with water glossy and distended
Looks to you like a cluster of stars
And you know if you kissed her, she would taste sweet
Where the soap was smoothed over her belly and between her thighs
Removing a tangy musk that you have breathed in, head pressed to her warmth
Eyelashes fluttering
She is automatic in her routine
But you are transfixed by her breasts moving as she does
Her shoulders softly rounded and peppered with freckles
Shielding herself without conscious thought as she continues to brush her hair
And from the bedspread you take in the lines where her bathing suit protects her from the sun
Wet fabric you have tenderly peeled down,
To kiss cold skin slightly gritty with sand, salty and pale
As your fingers ran up the flesh of her calves
Feeling the prick of dark stubble

The intimacies of every day
Are in the blotched pink around her mouth
A cut healing raised on her tanned forearm
A towel slung unevenly
The frayed terrycloth damp

How she slips into your tee shirt, climbs onto the bed
Hands bracing at the old springs give to her weight
The droplets of water left in a trail on the white bleached sheet
Love is when she is stretched out beneath you
And her hands are in your hair
Still ropey from a day at the beach
And you know she wants you to clean up
That she’s wary of the grains on the soles of your feet that will cling to the old cracked linoleum and pressed wooden planks
But for now
She will let you lie against her
And the afternoon sun travel up your back
Warm and yellow
Her taste in your mouth

A Number of Objects

by Savannah Stuitje

Today I woke up

And took pills

Swallowing them down easy with the contents of a can

I was pulled outside by a synthetic ringing

Sounding in my ears and I wasn’t sure if I imagined it or not

I laughed

But I can’t honestly remember if anything funny was said

Today I sat, and I walked, and I ran through a maze of an assortment of boxes

That I don’t know if I could call a home or a hell

With a sort of despair tinged with painful joy and anticipation

Today my fingers danced, they twitched and clenched

They smoothed over rough edges

They ran ragged over surfaces with too much love

Leaving each thing damp with emotion

Too much emotion

I was regretful as I let go

Today I gripped a number of objects to my chest

I let my nails bite into them intimately

But I couldn’t tell now you what they were

Because I let them all go and they left only dust on my shirt

Petty things, trivial

And yet I can’t be rid of them now

I can’t be rid of the birds

Roiling across the sky

And I could swear I hear your voice

Speaking faster and faster, your words sweet

Loving

Faster and faster

I can’t understand you anymore

Today I looked in a mirror

And I didn’t recognize myself

I liked it better that way

That girl had nice legs

Today it rained

It rained but for the first time

The world was not clean after

And I liked it better that way too

I let the polluted air tunnel through my pores

And I like to think I’m stronger now

I like the music in my head

I let your words filter through

Like sunlight through the blinds in an old folks home

Soft and melting

They smelled like maybe they had been outdoors once in the last month

And I wanted to capture them in jars

Slide stiff paper beneath them

And rush each one outside

Lay it on the grass and give it mouth to mouth resuscitation

Until they gasp and open their eyes

You can smell the earth dabbed behind my ears

And I think the time might be soon

We will leave, we will take flight

Not into a bollywood sunset

But we will be together

And I am comforted because I would know you anywhere

Even if I was blindfolded

We will be gone and people will wonder if we died

But in all my haste you will find a trail of bread crumbs

DNA scattered on the wind

Peeling from the walls like old paper

The tiles shiny with tainted affections

You might swipe at me with unrelenting bristles; leave me out with the trash

And the air might smell like lemons from a tin

But I couldn’t forget this if I tried

I feel each brick is steeped with something

The way they steam in the rain

Exorcising our demons

The air plunges down and warps the hot pavement

And I might have learned enough by now to know

When it is time to sit on my hands and let this wash over me

I think I know enough to know you have a beautiful smile

I’m not sure what else there is

But the chip in your front tooth is encouraging 

Ken

by Savannah Stuitje

I liked you because you were the ken doll I wanted when I was little.
People say we marry our fathers, but it’s not true, we marry the
people that fit into the dry cleaners bag of the life we think we
want. We grow up and grow out our bangs and learn to drive but we
never leave the past behind us no matter how we fill out. You reminded
me of tan lines and cheerleader skirts and prom dresses, stereotypes
no one is supposed to want. We came together at the stroke of twelve
like cake batter mixing. Mellowed out and willing to ride out any wave
that came at us simply because our schedules needed filling. Maybe if
we hadn’t found each other so quickly, it wouldn’t have gotten boring
so fast. Basking in your rays I could feel the heat of jealous eyes
sliding over me and maybe even leaving something different behind, the
most gorgeous tan. My ken doll, holding your plastic hand in the
hallway, the accessories you came with, cars and acknowledgments,
chocolate on Valentines Day. It’s too bad you didn’t come with a
matching heart and voice box too, but what can you expect from mass
produced perfection? It’s hard to come home to someone that isn’t home
but I wonder who stopped showing up first? You, with all your other
plans, or me, who always figured it was too good to be true.

Red on the Sky

by Savannah Stuitje

We are everything and nothing and dust on the wind
We are the burning maple tree, red on the sky
Sugar dripping onto the coals, the flames bright and angry
I will not be satisfied until I hold your heart between my teeth,
And my hands are inside you,
Playing among your bones, your steaming intestines
Until I have eaten your brain with knife and fork, sucked the marrow
from your ribs and wiped my lips with a linen napkin
Until you are looking down from my wall, your eyes glassy and cataract
spotted from where I have stolen your knowledge and savored it with a
fine brandy,
I will not be happy until I feel your arms around me in a new fur coat.
I will not breathe until your scent is gone from the wind
Until my ears no longer lie flat against my skull
Until your blood is on my hands, I assure you, I will not spill my own again.
We will toast my success in crystal glasses,
Praise the brilliant red of it, the hearty bouquet that assails us
I will not blink until you are gone from the places my mind goes when I drift
Between each spoken sentence, when I must ask others to repeat themselves
My mind wandered...
You will be scrubbed clean off me and discarded with yellow plastic gloves
And I will leave you standing at attention
Until your bones are aching with expectations as mine have,
Your eyes squinted with the cold, waiting for me,
Waiting to be let go,
Waiting to be remembered and taken home by the hand,
Until you give up and realize
You have been forgotten
I will leave you adrift in the falling snow
Your hands shaking, your breath short, your nostrils quivering
You will fall with melting snow on your cheeks.

Hide and Seek

by Savannah Stuitje

Love is not to be found in the backseat of a car
A circle of moonlight on a glossy front lawn
A musty basement spangled with cobwebs
In a nook, a cranny, a crawlspace
A library, a movie theatre slick with pop corn grease
Love is not shoved up against a wall
Wrists held down, breasts pushed up
Like a paid actress with goods for sampling
A housewife with a plate of finger sandwiches, pigs in a blanket
It is not stroked down its stomach like a purebred dog
Trembling into submission by a firm hand
Or groped through a flimsy dress
Love cannot be gripped by the thighs, made to ride like a cowgirl
Love does not rake its hands down your back
It is not made to moan and thrash
Or hold you in its hands like a prize fish
Mumble rosaries as it prays to you, its mouth open and regretful
Love does not scramble for its clothes in the dark
Or leave an earring behind; breathe something hot and moist into an ear
Love does not wander fingers down its body looking for souvenirs
Love does not wipe itself down with printed napkins
Or lose its underwear, a necklace, a sandal
Love does not sit in the bathroom and take inventory
Text a friend, call a cab, scrawl goodbyes on credit card receipts
A number, an exclamation, a drooping smiley face
It does not leave with its skirt caught in the car door
Love does not drive to a diner and eat pancakes
One after another, moistened with syrup and butter
Crunchy bacon and flaccid eggs cooked sunny side up
To lose the taste in its mouth
Love does not smoke bummed cigarettes
Or swallow handfuls of water in a gas station bathroom
Walk to a local pharmacy for little pills and take them dry in the parking lot
Bury the packaging in the trash
Love does not picture the darkness of its insides,
Porous white egg shell and minnow quick movements
Love does not curl its body into bed at 9 in the morning
In a little black dress, no underwear, and cold sheets
Love does not dream of babies rolling in lazy somersaults
Their eyes closed, hands folded, waiting patiently
Of bellies rounded with expectations
Seeds that smell the dirt like heaven
That come through cracks in the sidewalk
Their necks held out for execution

The pretense of breathing underwater

by Savannah Stuitje

I was eleven years old, the summer you begin to notice how skinny you are in all the wrong places, when you’re caught in the juniors section of Target and pretend to be lost. We went there everyday, too hot to do anything but laze on rafts. The clumpy pond sand that followed me home every night, the sharp stones I thought were snapping turtles, swirling silt in the water turning my legs a golden tan. That summer still tastes of flat soda and sandy food in my mouth. That summer when I realized I wasn’t the only one alive anymore. They dragged him out of the water; lay him on the ground, two pale hands pushing him roughly. A challenge to sit up, fight for his own breath. The water streamed out of his nose and mouth. I remember I kept waiting for him to sit up and push them off him. The ambulance men, surrounding him like ants on sugar, adults gathering to discuss it in words children didn’t want to understand. I remember hearing later that he was pronounced dead on arrival. I wondered what it was like, to feel your muscles seize up and your body sink to the sandy bottom taking you with it. I wondered if he was still there.