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Atone, San Antone & Breathing

Poetry, Maggie Rue Hess


Atone, San Antone


When we speak again 

of this place

we will tell them

how tables were full 

of prosecco

and fruit juice, 

eggs, beans, peppers, tortillas.

But the people carried knives

under their tongues,

broken glass between their teeth.


We will tell them

how we became 

like velvet, soft

to dull the blows.

We were corn husks

stewed over and over,

resilient vessels

salty and robust.


This place beckoned

with flowers

orange and pink,

with spices 

with sweetbreads

and we followed the call.

After we left,

it was not a mistake

the way we remembered it.


 

Breathing


A year and a half into it, a friend asks how 

married life is going. I say, We’ve finally figured out 

how to set the thermostat for both of us. I say, 

You know, growing up in the house I did – 

I say, I felt like I was holding my breath for so long. 

Round, buzzy bees hover toward and away 

from my face. March shouldn’t be this sunny, 

should it? Should I be sitting outside with bare arms 

if I know I’ll burn at least a little? - but should I be  

thinking that when the daffodils bloomed weeks ago? 


When we were first dating, he lived two hours away, 

so the weekends were precious; some days 

I would walk around my classroom, stressing at 

or over students, think of him, and take a deep breath. 

Exhale and find myself smiling. 


Everywhere I turned, back then, were mosquitoes 

and reasons to upend my life. Quit my job and fish 

all day starting at daybreak, swatting the bugs and 

staring at the opposite shore, the rich houses. 

I grew up with a tiny wood-paneled bedroom 

on the top floor; my window opened onto the roof

of faded red tin. Yes, sometimes I climbed out, 

but never to escape. I didn't want a home that 

I would run away from, but by the time I could drive, 

I kept a spare set of everything in the back of my Jeep. 

You could say I was waiting to leave, that I was 

always ready to. You could say love happened 


when I least expected or deserved it: during the summer 

trips across the South; over rankings of barbecue joints, 

of states we might someday move to; before the fall wedding 

and the pair of stinky dogs and the Christmas ornaments 

with both our names. Before falling asleep, we list 

our favorite moments from the day, curled under the covers 

in our (too cold) bedroom. I tell my friend, It's good. 

With him, I’m breathing.


 

Maggie Rue Hess (she/her) is a PhD student living in Knoxville, Tennessee, with her partner and their two crusty white dogs. Her work has previously appeared in Rattle, Minnesota Review, Connecticut River Review, and other publications. Belle Point Press published her debut chapbook, The Bones That Map Us, in February 2024. She likes to share baked goods with friends, and you can find her shenanigans on Instagram: @maggierue_


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