Two Poems
by Erin Schallmoser
a pile of bison dung can support more than a hundred different species of insects
rough brown oval clumps serving as castles in a
kingdom I can never visit
but who am I to not be amazed by the everyday details
a pile of bison dung can support more
than a hundred different species of insects
and by support I mean these insects
live in the bison dung
and feed on the bison dung and when these insects die
their biomass is food for birds amphibians
various herbivores
a pile of bison dung
can support more than a hundred different species
of insects
small deaths perpetually celebrated by the living
nature does not shy away
from decaying things
How to Make a Mountain
Walking beside god while she is young
she tells me lupines are her favorite flower,
and she is always impatient for spring.
She tells me the scent of pine makes her
breathe easier, and believes she was
a wolf in a past life. She walks with a heavy step,
heel first, like she’s trying to reach eternity through the dirt.
We walk through a quiet neighborhood,
and she calmly explains tectonic plates to me,
the mothers and fathers of mountains:
smashed together, like two frenzied bodies – fold mountains
ground together, like coffee beans meeting blades – fault-block mountain ranges
pushed below each other, like us under blankets in November – dome mountains.
Those are the volcanoes, she says with a grin.
Walking beside god while she is young,
I tell her the embryo inside me is now the size of the lentil,
and that the midwife emailed this morning to say my hCG levels
are increasing normally. I tell her how arrogant I feel, still,
for thinking I know anything about growth.
But then god puts her hand in mine and says
We are like the mountains, holding steady in the wind and rain,
welcoming thick green forests of offspring and joyous visitors,
digging roots into earth’s heart. And yes it’s true –
how I still want to dig my heels deep into the dirt of motherhood,
to reach for my children through the damp soil,
to surrender my body to the millions of tiny organisms there.
This is the third try, and different from the last times, in all the good ways.
But it is still so early.
Every trip to the lab brings a new set of dread. Throughout the day,
I grab at my breasts, to check that they’re still tender.
When I pee, I inspect the toilet paper for any signs of red, brown, pink –
those murky unwelcome heart-hammering colors.
It seems instead of being like a mountain, I am in the shadow of one,
and climbing up isn’t even a choice. I’m meant to sit at the base, gaze at the
evergreens, and wait my turn for reassurance.
Walking beside god while she was young,
she laughs at the winter wrens, the black-capped
chickadees, the palm warblers, all taking flight at our
approach, and quickly settling again.
You should see me when I’m old, she says:
I bake chocolate cakes and biscuits,
send other people’s poems
as love letters to my family, do the laundry
and put the recycling out.
Right now I am so careless, so
caught up in my senses, but
you’ll forgive me, she says,
because you’ll want to forgive yourself.
There are many ways to make a mountain,
she tells me, so long as you stay in motion.
There is no such thing as running out of time,
when you are brilliance itself,
when you live outside of straight lines,
when you know destruction to be a creative force.
Erin Schallmoser (she/her) lives in the Pacific Northwest and loves moss, slugs, and the moon. Her work can be found in Hobart, Rejection Letters, Maudlin House, Moonpark Review, Sledgehammer and elsewhere. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of Gastropoda, and is on Twitter @dialogofadream. You can read more at https://www.erinschallmoser.com/