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From Rotten Opulence.

by Miciah Pendarvis

the day i was born, my father took a knife
to Blossom Street, carved my first name
ANNA in unset asphalt then raised
me as a middle name
girl. on a mission to find my takhallus,
i rode shotgun with the middle name
boy i mistook
for the love of my life. he was the last
of four brothers, all christened Robert
which, he said, complicated matters
for the officer matching the correct
ticket to the correct Robert, one $500 fine
for each swan they shot
down from the sky of an October
well before i touched the hook
brand on his buttcheek and said you have a hookus
on your tookus. the need to stamp
a moment with a word, an us. our speed blurred blazing stars
furring the legs of the highway sign, Edisto,
a bone necklace of letters, a reminder to associate
Edisto with the land the river runs through, not
a nation of people a planter enslaved, branded
his initials on their faces, whitewashed
them in names like Toby, the man who ran
north, stopped short by the reward
the Boston News-Letter ran
alongside a wood-block print of his WB
scarred cheeks. i used to find something sublime
in how far the two of us could drive
a disagreement, in how that middle-named boy
beheld me as if he were focusing my image
into the scope of his rifle
while we idled on Blossom, above
my knifed name the city repaved,
that new layer in the trifle cake,
that mass mausoleum
of history sealing
below with above.

About the Author

Miciah Pendarvis is a poet in the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her poetry has been published in The Atlantic, the Heartland Review, Cargoes, and the 2022 South Carolina Bards Poetry Anthology.