She Says She Remembers None of It

by Elaine Olund

“In Nature, Nothing Exists Alone.” —Rachel Carson, Silent Spring

Along the banks of the gold-green Chinquapin
not far from a clutch of loblolly pines,
I was pulled into this hard world,
slick as creek-bed mud, covered in blood.

Not far from a clutch of loblolly pines,
my mother was there, drugged, bound,
slick as creek-bed mud, covered in blood.
She says she remembers none of it.

My mother was there, drugged, bound,
feet strapped in silver stirrups under halogens bright.
She says she remembers none of it:
not the doctor’s red hands, nor the forceps or the knife.

Feet strapped in silver stirrups under halogens bright—
not the sharp blade, not the slice;
not the doctor’s red hands, nor the forceps or the knife.
Above the stream, cardinals sang in laced branches.

Not the sharp blade, not the slice
muffled by cotton.
Above the stream, cardinals sang in laced branches
on a morning cherry-sweet

muffled by cotton.
Along the banks of the gold-green Chinquapin,
on a morning cherry-sweet,
I was pulled into this hard world—

and my mother was there.

---

Elaine Olund is the author of The Invisible Suitcase (Finishing Line Press, 2020). Her award-winning writing has appeared in Flyway: Journal of Writing and Environment (Sweet Corn winner in 2019 for poetry), Midway Journal, Mobius, The Journal of Social Change, and others. She holds ongoing climate writing circles and is working on a collection focused on grieving and living joyfully in our changing world. Find more of her work at elaineolund.com.