Allison Cundiff

Turpentine Bath

Thinking on all the little things that have poisoned me:
Knob of paraffin wax, fourth drawer down, 
a blasted arc of welding sparks, the cooking pan used to change oil, 
little clouds of lead ground under your shoe.
You can’t hold your breath forever in this life.  

Ted said that if it gets really bad,
there are black-bottomed fishing boats 
boarding workers at Jari Hill in the Tanggula.
It’s true. I looked it up. Sampans they’re called. 
You’ll work so hard you may forget you’re dying.  

What it really boils down to is that one Sunday in autumn. Your father handed you the rough-bristled paint brush to work instead of waiting out the day inside. You painted along the west end of the property, up and down the wooden slats as the sun rose and fell, cakes of paint drying on the creases of your neck, your fingernail beds. Then the turpentine scrubbing later, too rough, those little pricks of poison under your skin, your eyelids. Not even the Hunter’s Moon could save you. You hid your hurting since even then you knew rough was better than nothing. 

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Allison Cundiff is a beekeeper and teacher living in St. Louis. Her publications include the forthcoming novel, Hey Pickpocket (2024, JackLeg Press), three books of poetry, Just to See How It Feels (2018, Word Press), Otherings (2016, Golden Antelope Press) and In Short, A Memory of the Other on a Good Day, co-authored with Steven Schreiner (2014, Golden Antelope Press). Connect at allisoncundiff.net.