after Olga Tokarczuk
In a workshop I draft my poetic
map of home & find Agatha of Sicily: virgin,
whore, captive, saint. The Etna’s lava fell
asleep in the girl’s veil. Her breasts
sit in a bakery for sale. She would not
love a man for the price of a lie. Rebel-
girl admonished saint. I was christened
in St. Agatha Church & grew up
on Agatha Street, loop of tar plunged
between fields. Red-brick bourgeoisie. Suburban
cul-de-sac. Centre of my 90s girl universe—
↑
Oak woods for treasure-hunting
bird feathers. Beyond, the fields
I pluck strawberries
in summer. Year after year
the fields shrink as a new estate
shoots from the ground. From the seesaws
in Kindergarten I watch concrete
conquer pastures and grow
into the sky. This part is threatened
by greed, and Agatha blesses it with an elm leaf.
←
Playground, soccer pitches, riding
school, lined by the river Werse
flowing along mazes of fields. Under roofs
of leaves, my best friend and I steal corn, stuffing
our pants, fleeing from the farmer’s blood-
hound. Smoke the cobs on father’s barbecue.
This is the part endangered by losing
oneself in summer, and Agatha blesses it with an acorn.
→
After school I spend my pocket money
in the copy shop on sour
gums & Diddl stationery to deal
for rarer prints. Sometimes I cross
the big bridges over canal & Autobahn
into the city centre, to crush
my piggy bank for Westlife CDs. Later
I learn on a school trip
about the anabaptists who rotted
in St. Lambert’s cages & the peace
of Westphalia in our town hall. Beyond
the Western walls: gallow’s heath.
This part is threatened by gluttony
and Agatha blesses it with snakeskin.
↓
Gate to fear: the streets of Osttor
a concrete riddle to be walked
only in the company of father. Men
in tracksuit pants smoke,
leaning against their barracks. Once I find
a syringe stuck in the cracks
of the pavement. A gravelly path
opens into lush fields, leads to my mother’s
favourite flower shop. This part is tempted
by pride, and Agatha blesses it with a dandelion.
*
Centre of my 90s girl universe: street
blessed with Agatha’s name, where girls
play like boys: I kick
the ball on the street, graze
my knees on the hot asphalt
named after her. Blood as mark
of pride: wild witchling
climbing trees & cars. Tie
the swing’s metal strings
around the beam, watch
the street from higher up, peeling
plasters off my skin: let the blood
crust like cooling lava.
CHRISTINA HENNEMANN is a poet and writer. Her latest poetry book “Leafing” is a winner of the Cerasus Poetry Chapbook competition. Her pamphlet “Witch/Womb” was funded with an Agility Award from Arts Council Ireland. She received the Doyle Award and the Diana Woods Memorial Award in Creative Nonfiction, as well as a Mayo Artist Bursary. Her work appears in Poetry Ireland, Poetry Wales, Anthropocene, Southword, York Literary Review, Meetinghouse, Kelp Journal, and elsewhere.
