I Wake Up In My Wetsuit As The Dark Wakes Up In Its Cold— Some Things Are Like This, As Unavoidable

this poem is made from rainwater collected outside my dead uncle’s house

my dead uncle’s house gleams like a sore bone

a neighbor’s dog could have brought in, slicked with saliva and dedication.

the more-chip-than-paint walls stand skinned by the storm

that sawed through this county no more than two half-hours ago.

my dead uncle adjusts his death into the still-dying/ still-living cells

that hum on inside him without understanding. parts of him glimmer,

still bright, his hair growing like something shocking

that doesn’t know its shock— the silent video of those years-ago fireworks

pasted to the limp tongue of an elderly VHS tape, its fire

broken, vivid but mute, the cheers I know are there stuck in the air—

like the dark sticks to the night— I can’t see either. all those blank

shouts careening through the screen without their bodies or mine. my dead uncle’s hair

grows down to his knees, no one whispers the secret of his new reality to his follicles

so they all just go on spinning straw-colored beer-calories

into gold. I am outside the house and its long sore silence

which bends the water off its arthritic boards like an old victory I never fought for.

he was not a good uncle. it is july or it was about an hour ago. here is my uncle’s house

I am outside of it, trying to think up something new to call the place that doesn’t belong

to anyone anymore except maybe to those blond locks buttered across the floor like light.

I stand under the gutter and hit it with a stick. old rain,

which sat still long enough to lose its name, hits me cold.

I say hello, think about the hurt of throats in the old video from the picnic on the 4th,

how happy everything must be from behind the camera lens. my uncle doesn’t know he’s dead

like the cold in the gutter doesn’t know its name isn’t thunder any longer.    

                        - c. essington

I really like the thought that they're still out there fishing in 1928.

For any newcomers, these are a few more photos of my great grandfather Axel's fishing trip out west. 

I have been vividly inactive,,,, but now I have an important thing I am very  invested in and excited about!

I won Newfound Org’s 2019 Prose Chapbook Prize ^^^

And Things From the Creek Bed We Could Have Been is my debut collection of surreal short stories from this independent press and it’s out for preorder now in both ebook and print here!

https://newfound.org/product-category/print/chapbooks/prose/claire-oleson/

I’m very proud of this work and so delighted it’s found a home with a press that makes beautiful and hand-bound books.Consider taking a glance if you’ve got a moment or an interest in learning about Magritte or fish guts or Cerberus or gender thank youuuu. 

Why are the peaches in the river and how are they about divorce? Gonna have to find out.

Also consider reblogging to support an independent writer and press in one fell swoop, thanks so much!

Excited to have a short story in the upcoming issue of Bridge Eight

kayaking in the winter           means you’re confident or lonely

running uphill until everything, including your name, hurts          means that there is something in your body which          you’ve missed missing.

writing codes in plain english out of words that          symbolize nothing but themselves          means you’ve taken up poetry again          and should stop or get a kayak by this time, next december.

- c. essington

what is your most favorite piece that you've written?

Agh I’m not entirely sure but I wrote a short story about gender dysphoria and greyhounds that’s coming out in the fourth issue of Bridge Eight Magazine that I’m a bit fond of at the moment. 

Please feel free to send in any more college/ kenyon/ writing/ publishing questions! I have a lot of time today.

Heading back to my college to spend the summer working for the Kenyon Review!

How To Take A Radial Pulse

maybe this has been one of those nights that I’ll come back to later, to outline in crayon and label softly, drawing looks out from the eyes like water from a well. well,

all days have sore ribs, burnt nerves, places which go tender under threat but this one feels like something particularly loose and abused enough already, something which will just  go to heaven if it’s ever touched again.

there is something memorable about hours way too made of blood to ever bleed. 

it’s not going to hurt to put fingers on this: the dim around the pizza box around the carpet around the working anatomies around the exactly seven kidneys. 

it’s not going to hurt it’s just going to all come back in through the palm, one pressure at a time, working just like the un-music a heart makes to keep a head. 

                                   - c. essington 

“Ham and Starch” a short story by Claire Oleson

Slowly, with her voice pointed down towards the snow, she starts. “That we aren’t for the morning/ that we aren’t for house-fires./ That if you lit a match in your basement/ and it caught on/ and g…

I’ve had a short story published on the literary blog, The Whale.

from here, the metal of the sink trips the bright of the afternoon into one blot of silver  just thick enough  to get dim on.

from here, sleep is below us like a manta ray is below the water. we feel wings, slick and cousined to a shark, slip across our eyes. we fall in and out of ourselves, hands very close to not touching. 

from here, I’ve caught the picture of your eyes closed across the pillow, brain still shadowed, leg twitching  on the rim of a dream. I woke up before you to find the world soft, to find a privacy, the bed dented lightly with the girl of it. 

        - c. essington