Tara A Elliott

The World

Ball-peen hammer heavy in my small hand;
lid of the washer shut like a closed mouth.
My chore: hit the knob of the broken Kenmore
with a hammerblow the moment it kicked to spin.
But there in front of me stood the world—
open and outspread, each country defined
in delicate pastel, outlined by thick black borders,
imprinted atop the folding metal table
for which my dad was proud to have paid
three dollars at a yard sale. It summoned
me that afternoon to find the names of places
I’d only heard on TV: Puerto Vallarta, Oahu, Seoul.
In the rusted corner, the compass rose—a small star
pointing out the arrangement of everything. And the click
went unheard as I explored landforms rising like breasts
I didn’t yet have, the Brooks Range nestled
into the neck of the Rockies, the cinching of the Sierra Madres,
the wicked hip of the Andes. Suds slopping out the washer,
whitewater puddling the hard cement floor and me so quick
with the hammer, that corner
so sharp, my wrist so soft as rust bit into flesh
and a dark river rose to stream down my forearm—
a flood of blood on Ayres Rock, Brisbane & Sydney, the Coral Sea
O mop, O bucket, O washer, O wrist,
O map-so-gloriously-unfolded, O aged-white line—
a constant reminder of how this world can scar.

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Tara A Elliott’s poems have appeared in TAOS Journal of International Poetry & Art, The American Journal of Poetry and Stirring, among others. She currently serves as the President of the non-profit Eastern Shore Writers Association (ESWA) in Maryland. For more information, visit www.taraaelliott.com