---

DREAM TREE

We are playing that child’s game of guess what I’m saying underwater,

a game of who can stay
submerged longest,
             who can listen longest to the voices of the dead.

You say: Give me your watch. I’ll time you. How long can you hold—?

And how precious is time,
how long wine waits to peak,
how long do we have
              before time fills our love with blood?

I look up at you across the swimming pool and I should not be afraid,
              I can see the bottom of the water
and it is safe and blue and clear
but already you are beginning to blur.

Time takes everything.
Wait with me, wait
for fingers of ice to climb you
the last possible moment
             before rising
                            for air or to leave.

But how could I ever
leave you?



Who better
             knows my gravity? Who will love me knowing
the cost of love is love? Who else
loves me blackout
             drunk, out of my mind, vicious

with this rare, never want this night to end,
with this leave your life,
kind of love?

You bring me wine for my hangovers,
you call me back from
blood on the brain
            when I inhale too much water.

Time long stops the heart
This place
            is the place where you leave me.
I can’t tell what you are shouting into the water
            but the question never was what are you trying to say

it is how long will you stay
knowing all that we are promised is loss.
Promise me

when you think of me
            you will think of me

as the river of light
             you would do anything to cross.
Promise me I will see you again
             even though I will never



see you again. We will never repeat—

               not in the same way,
not exactly,
not when more
               than a swimming pool stands between us.

Each time the dream comes after

I will have less.
I will go back
              to before I saw the sky.

I will take you with me
I will take you back

into this water. I will never move from this where,
this water where
              always

I find you.

---

---

BOUND FOR

Lightning so angry half the lights floated
blacked, flickered, came back

            and I filled my bathtub with water in case of a true outage,
an emergency-emergency. Why were you

at the bottom of those pools that—in the dark—
beware me of blood? I look to the water. I see

you clawing at your own throat,

strangers promising
                     He’s in a better place.

          What better—what life
after this—too late

for naloxone, too late for Heaven,

new earth. I sit here perpetually
              inventing lives more terrifying to live—

as if reality were not enough. I hope you never know
how far, how deep
my grief dragged me—the everydayness



of walking empty
                              grocery stores, parking lots, quiet fluorescents,
the quiet telephone.

I think that I am alive—once,

                                                    you said Lobsters,
you said something with their chromosomes,
you said the only thing time does for them is grow—

I think that I am alive now
because you are not.

If there is a world in which the dead speak, let them
tell me what it’s worth—your name
so difficult to say.  

---

---

Beside the black poplars

my father ran against his own spectre’d brain   his sadness   his cramped hunger cabinet
kicked the water-logged soccer ball through the acre and back


                        the dead translate our bodies as reeds voice a marsh
          find their way back like fugitive monks from a night we’ve never seen
                        tucked beneath their robes the books they bear are their bodies


          their fingers are long shadows                         their cheeks scuffed as sitting-stones
                        their shoulders torqued like St. Sturgeon suspended from his tree
                                                                            and feet        grandmother’s
                                                                            and feet        worm-worn spars of wood
                                                                            and feet        father’s feet his mother’s tributary
                                                                            the perennial bones
                                                                            unfurl grass through the grass

---

---

Repeating the names of the dead the names of the dead

I hear that water keeps sound endlessly, a field ringing with voices.

Your names have been lost down the river we grew beside, the river that killed some of us.



Caught like flood debris against the wingdam.


Taking off down the Delaware toward Trenton, and further on to the sea’s ringing vacancy.


Or, like how light through water frays toward darkness and the riverbed.

All of you down there, current.



I open my lips, and water makes me home.

---

---

River of Lamentation

I grew up swarming for the love of men
who are now mostly old, or dead and naked in dirt.
I find them crawling over old photos, not ghosts,
but hives of caught light.

Faded at 24, Uncle Al in the clutch
of colorized film. He gazes at an open fire.
The river is brackish with summer.

The dead are a kind of grain.
A resident imperfection
                            in life’s material.
In the footage of Reactor 4 Shevchenko shot
three days after the meltdown, radiation opened
its eyes and mouths. It still speaks its life,
and eats the tape. In his photo, my uncle
bears a grain he never did in life.
His eyes distance, his body gone.

Static is the war of the ants,
like the living skull my brother lifted
from the blackberry thicket when we were young.
                                        Ants sutured on it false flesh.
When he threw it back, the thorns raked it naked.
                                        Grains, ants, my grandfather’s eyes,
                         the year before, caught in film, caught before
                         the basement. He died



                                                         in exhaust
                                                                     -ion.
At their funerals I looked for them in the bushes,
but nothing crawled back from dying,
                                                                                   only
                                                                 light.

---

---

Augury

as the dogwoods told,

                                   a living cousin grew so hungry
                                   he sold his porno magazines and shotgun and collector’s items
                                   his Nintendo and his cheap clothes and still his hunger fumed
                                   he turned on smaller cousins and wolfed them

                 there was fleeing                                 there was chase
                 chaste descriptions of both
                 cousin in the dog in the woods
                 ran so fast its eyes ignited  mad stars in its skull
                 body stretched like grip seeking
                 trees blurred boundaries until
                 there was no difference

a curse courses through this family
for trespass     for living
for no other reason than the rain is pissed
                                          and decides it so

our ravening family’s great-gray-fogbank-miasma sealing us below
                                the driven-under farmer’s field
                                we fall and pool
                                            tease stagnant waters from the water table
                              breed new winged bodies keening for old bloo
our specters never miss a feast         the arras forever torn to reveal



the slaughtered grandfathers spilled like a pot-roast on dirty tiles
the hanged moon
the McMansion’s too-legible portent
foundation licked by housefire
our witness speechless             doused               in carnage            like butter

---

---

The oracle haunts the 24-hour diner

In this vinyl temple, I am the living ox preserving
the heart of a butchered king. I wake sealed lip-to-lip
with my frail reflection on plate glass. Coffee, darker
than the server’s dyed hair, renounces
second-hand headlights off the highway.
I interpret my cream chipped beef, wanting for entrails.
In this heat, it won’t outlast the flies.
The server, batter-white as Bergman’s Death,
kills tea bags, kills crosswords, kills hours.
I utter as I eat, purloin each moment down
my throat like a poached egg. Before dawn,
I abjure home like I abjure the huddled ruins
of complimentary toast. I take one misguided bite, scatter
the remnants for sunrise: crumpled eidolons, stale visions.
Northbound, the 18-wheeler splits my reflection,
and day tumbles out like new-birthed snakes.





                               where    you      are,          I cannot    t e l l

---

---

Detroit, Michigan

SKATER HOUSES

---

Detroit  is  a   city  made  for  skaters.  It   is  the  home  of   the   RollerCade,
the   oldest  Black-owned   roller  rink  in  the  country,   which   has   been
operated by the same family since 1955. It’s also the home of Detroit-style
skating,   a   synchronized   couples  skate.  It’s  a  city  that  was  made  by   and   for
those who roll. And that’s without even mentioning cars.
    The   city’s     skate   scene   can   be    depicted,   too,     without    harping   on   its
infrastructure.   Much   has     been   written     about     the    Motor   City’s     empty
buildings,    with    laments   for   the   city    often   manifesting    as    poverty   porn
or   like   a   script   for   an   apocalyptic   movie.   Too   many   hipsters   have   gone
with camera   in   hand   in   search   of  beauty  in   the   destruction   in   the   name
of   creating    art   that    so    depersonalizes    the     destruction   from   the  people
whose  lives   are  most   affected   by   it.    But   there   is    much   more   to  Detroit
than    this.   In   terms    of   street   skating,   empty   buildings  and   unmonitored,
unguarded    private   property     are    the   stuff    of   dreams,   and   skaters   here,
like   skaters   anywhere,    make   use   of    what   they   have.  I   myself   was   born
in   a   city   of   broken   concrete,   jagged,   bent   handrails,   unmown   grass,  and
abandoned     factories   whose   tenants    had   moved   overseas,    leaving   behind
husks   of   buildings,   empty  and   wanting.   My   dad  worked  at  a  steel  mill for
thirty-two   years   until   the   day   its   doors   permanently   closed,   and  I  refuse

to  pretend  there’s  a  silver  lining   in   deindustrialization  and  the  poverty  that
comes with it.
    All this is to say, I went to Detroit in search of new stories.
    I    drove   miles   of   winding    roads   past   glittering  lakes   to  arrive   at   Dan
Mancina’s    house.   His   five-month-old    Newfoundland     puppy    greeted    me
with a howl and bounded to a hole he’d exuberantly been digging.
    “Not   much   of    a    seeing-eye dog,”   Dan    joked   as    he   pushed   dirt   back
into the hole and tamped it down.


                                                                 ***

    “I   didn’t   even   skate   at   that   point,”   he   said.  “I was   over  skateboarding.
I   was   over   the   whole  scene.  LA  was  way   different  than  the  Midwest skate
scene,   and  I   wasn’t   really  feeling  it.  It  was  just not what  I thought  it  would
be. It was super cliquey.”
    That,   combined    with   his   deteriorating    vision,   made  him  think  he   was
done   with    skateboarding   for   good.   There   was  a two-year  period where  he
had no drive to skate at all. It was a dark, depressing time.
    There’s    something   about     skating  that’s    almost   encoded   into     skaters’
DNA.  If   you  have  the   inclination   to   skate, you  won’t  be able to  stay   away
from  it.  There’s  an   instinctual  pull   that  won’t  let  you   avoid  the  adrenaline
rush of wheels under your feet for too long.
    “I’m  way   happier   and I’m   a better   person    when   I’m on   my  board,”   he
said.
    When  Dan   picked   up   a    skateboard   again,   he   was     more     determined
than ever. He   started   making   a  series   of   videos   to   challenge   the   public’s
assumptions     about   what   blind   people  are  capable of, and he started filming
himself skateboarding. The videos took off on Instagram.
    “It   was   weird    having   people   call   me   inspirational   at first.   It’s   still   a
little   weird,”   Dan said, chuckling. “I’m   just   a   skater. I don’t   see   myself   as



inspirational,   but   it   feels   good  to   know people enjoy   watching my  skating.
And  the  bonus is  that  people   are   inspired  by  it,  especially   those   who   are
visually   impaired   or  just   found  out  they’re  going   blind.  It’s   cool   to   hear
from them.”
    Dan   is    still   primarily   a   street   skater    and    will   skate    any   accessible
place,  especially  if  there’s  a  good  ledge,  round bar, or   flat   rail.   He    enjoys
going   around   and   finding  new  spots,   though   he   doesn’t   often  find  them
at skate  parks because   accessibility  is  almost   always   left  out  of   the   design
process.
    When   Dan   goes to a skate   park,  he    has  a   process   of  walking  the   park
to   figure   out what   he can   skate.  More  often than not, the obstacles   are  too
small.   Because   Dan   skateboards   with   his white   cane, he has to  be  able  to
locate the obstacle   and get a  sense  of its   height   and   length   before   he   can
skate it.

---

---

Davenport, Iowa

SKATE CHURCH

---

When     you     walk   into      Skate    Church,  you’re   not   just    walking   into
Skate   Church.   Housed   in    the   same   building,   a     former     furniture
warehouse now called the Center, are a number of nonprofits. There’s Quad
City     Harm      Reduction,  which     helps    people   who   are   addicted   to   drugs   use
them    safely   by   giving   people   clean    needles   and    Narcan.   There’s   a  donation-
based coffee   shop   in   the   back.   There’s   a   food   pantry  and   thrift   store.  There’s
a   studio   where     they   screen   films     and   teach   hip-hop   classes.  The   sanctuary,
which   includes   a   low   stage    with   a   cross   on   top  surrounded  by folding  chairs,
is  in  the  middle  of  it  all.  And  in   the  very  back   is   an   indoor   skate   park,  which
sprawls    across   two    floors    through   a   maze    of   ramps   and    bowls.   It’s   much
larger than the pictures online would have you believe.
    Pennie    Kellenberger,    who    has    been    running    Skate    Church     for     twenty-
one    years,    knows    everyone   in    the    Center   by   name.   And    they   know    her;
she’s the   one   they   go   to   for  help.   It  had   been   raining   in   Davenport  the  past
few   days   before   I   visited,   and  one  houseless   man’s   quilt   had   gotten   wet.  He
wasn’t  sure  how  he’d   be   able  to   dry  it, since  this   was   no   job   for   a  household
dryer    and    it    would   likely   need   to    be    professionally    dry   cleaned,   so    they
brainstormed     solutions.   Would    the    church   dryer   be   able   to   dry  out   a  quilt
on     site    before    it   became    irreparably   mildewed?    Probably    not.  Could    they



replace    the    quilt     with   other   blankets?   Pennie    would     check     her    supplies.
She   mentioned    she’d   just  given   away   her   last   sleeping   bag.   She   often   gives
supplies   away   the   same  day   she   gets   them.   Demand   is   high,   supply   is   low,
and the need is constant.
    “Are your shoes wet?” she asked the man. He nodded.
    “Take   them    off    and    dry   them    out,”    she   said.   The    man   looked   a   little
unsure,   as   though   he   shouldn’t   be  walking  around   barefoot   in   a   church,  but
Pennie    insisted    that   it   would   be   okay,   and   he   agreed.   After    all,    Christian
iconography   often   portrays   Jesus   barefoot.   It’d   be   a   hell   of a   thing   for   him
to judge.
    At   the   Center,   “come   as   you   are”   is   a  philosophy   that   weaves   throughout
the    organization.    It’s    the   same    philosophy    that    led   Pennie   to   start   Skate
Church over two decades ago.
    “We     kind     of    fell    into    it,”   she   said.    “We   started    doing   skate   ministry
because    I   was    working   at    the   church  across   the   street   and   I   realized  that
the    kids    I    was   drawn   to  didn’t   fit   the   kids  inside   the   church.   They  didn’t
feel     as    comfortable     being    inside    the    church,    so    we  started   doing  things
outside    in    the    parking    lot.    They’d     come    with     their    skateboards,   so   we
started building ramps.”


                                                                           ***

    “One    thing    skaters   have    in   common   is   you    can’t   stop   them.  Persistence
is a personality trait that threads through every skater,” Pennie said.
    Skaters      skate    in     defiance    of    the     police,      of      the      government,     and
of    private    property,  so    it    only   makes    sense    that    skaters   would    skate   in

defiance   of    the   church     too.   Institutions,   no   matter   how   much   power    they
believe   they    have,    cannot   stop   skating.   They   can   either  get   on   board   (pun
intended) with skaters or prepare for nonstop opposition.
    Skate   Church    is   a   testament  to  the   fact   that   if    you  listen    to   the   people
you want to serve, they’ll tell you what they need.
    “When     we     started,    there    wasn’t     a    skate   park    in     Davenport,”   Pennie
said,      although    one   was    built     about   ten    years   after   Skate     Church     was
established.  “But  my  goal  isn’t    to   build    skate    parks,   it’s   to   build   up  people
and   communities.  I   didn’t  set  out    to   build   a  really  cool  skate  park,  I   set  out
to build really cool people.”
    I   don’t   believe   in   much,     but   I     do    believe    in   skating.   I  believe    in  the
wind  on   my  face   when  I   go  down  a  ramp.  I   believe   in   sweat   dripping  down
the   small  of  my  back  and   pooling    under  my   breasts.   I   believe   in  knee  pads
and    helmets,    compression    socks    and   freshly   cleaned   bearings.  I   believe   in
doing   a   trick   you’ve  been  too   scared   to   try   for  months  and   feeling  powerful
when   you   realize   you   have  the   skills   and   just   needed  to   dispense   the   fear.
I    believe   in   falling   and  immediately   doing   the   trick    again   so    I   don’t  give
fear   time   to   settle   in   my  bones.  I    believe    there’s    something   about   skating
that  makes  it  feel  bigger  than  it   is,  like   it’s  a   reason  to  live   and   a   metaphor
for life, like it’s a calling beyond the mortal self.
    It’s enough to make me almost—almost—believe in God.

---

---

St. Louis, Missouri

SK8 LIBORIUS

---

I spotted the spire through a gap in the trees over a block  away and  got
chills. Sk8 Liborius, a  skate park in the former  St.  Liborius cathedral,
which was finished in 1889, cuts a sharp, Gothic image against the gray
sky, heavy with impending rain.
    Cathedrals  aren’t   tiny  structures,  but   Sk8  Liborius  looms  particularly
large. Across the  street, with  my  back up against  the  brick  of the  building
opposite,   I   still  couldn’t   fit  the  entire  facade  of the  church  in  a  single
camera  shot.  Try  as  I  might, the  pictures don’t  do it  justice anyway.  I’ve
seen plenty, however, because Sk8 Liborius  is a  bucket-list skate park.  And
ascending  the  stone  steps through  the tall  double doors,  you immediately
understand  why.  Stripped  of  its  pews,  the  floor  opens  to  an  expanse  of
ramps,  including  a   tall   vertical   ramp  made  possible  by  the  cathedral’s
height. The marble columns hold the buttressed ceiling.
    I  used   to  play   a   game  with  skaters  and   nonskaters  alike  where   I’d
show  them  a  picture  of  the  inside  of  Sk8  Liborius and  ask  them  where
they  thought  it  was. Out  of  the ones  who  didn’t  know  the  place already,
most   said  somewhere  in   Europe  and  some   said  New  York  City.  When
I  announced   it  was  in   St.  Louis, I  knew  their   jaws   would   drop.  They
always did.

                                                               ***

    Though  I  haven’t  been  to  mass  in  nearly  a   decade  and  only went  as
a   child  to  please  my  grandmother,  cathedrals  always  strike  awe  in  me.
The  tall  ceilings,  the  columns,  the  way  the sound  echoes on the tiles, the
baroque paintings of the Stations  of  the  Cross, and, of  course,  the stained-
glass  windows—all  of  it   makes  me  feel  small  and  makes  the world  feel
more expansive.
    That  is  to  say,  Sk8  Liborius   felt   holy  when  I  entered  it  for  the  first
time.  Not  in  a  specifically Catholic  or  even religious  sense  but in the way
that  skating  can  be a  kind of religion. I’ve heard skaters describe it as their
sanctuary  and  their refuge.  A cathedral  is  a monument  to  human artistry
and dedication. They’re not easy  to  build;  it  takes  a  lot  of  time,  years  on
end,  and  a   lot  of  resources  to   bring  a  one  to life, and  then  you have to
work  hard to maintain  it. Skating is  not  altogether  different.  It’s not  easy
to  do, it  takes  years  of  dedicated  practice  to get good at it, and it requires
an investment of time and resources. And  anyone  who’s  ever  built  a  ramp
and  maintained  it  for years  will tell  you  about  the  constant  struggle and
expense.
    Perhaps there’s someone who can  look  upon  Gothic  revival  architecture
and  feel blasé about it, but  that person  isn’t  me. When I walked inside Sk8
Liborius,  my  eyes  traveled  upward  through  the  vert  ramp  to  the  ribbed
vaulting  on the  ceiling,  the   Corinthian   columns,  the   clerestory  with  its
stained-glass  windows,   and  then  back  down   to  the  altar,  which  held  a
speaker  blasting rock music. Between  the  strumming  of an  electric guitar,
itself  another kind of shredding, birdsong   echoed  through   the   cavernous
room.  The cathedral’s  broken  windows invited  birds  in, and Sk8 Liborius,



like  an  airport or a  Walmart Supercenter, is also a large birdhouse. Though
their  nests,  situated past the dangling construction lights,  were too high  to
spot,  I  could guess where  their nests  were, based on  the  splatters of dried
bird poop on the ramps.
    The  poop  doesn’t   take  away   from  Sk8   Liborius’s   beauty,  though—it
only  adds  to  it. Skaters have   always   had  a  gritty,   DIY  ethos. As  a  rule,
skate  parks  are  expensive  to   build  and  maintain,  and   that’s   especially
true  for   one  that’s housed  in   a  building  that’s  over a century old and on
the  National  Register of  Historic  Places. When  St.  Liborius   was  built  in
the   late  nineteenth  century,  the Dakotas,  Montana,   Washington,  Idaho,
Wyoming,   Utah, Oklahoma,   New   Mexico,  Arizona,  Alaska,  and   Hawaii
weren’t states yet.
    Slappy   Sinclair,   a  skateboarder who’s  been  shredding  the  streets  and
ramps  of   St.  Louis   fo r thirty  years,  put  it   another  way:  “They   started
building   the   church  before Abraham  Lincoln was  born  and didn’t  finish
until after he was assassinated.”
    Sk8  Liborius   looks  like  it’s  still   under    renovation   because   it  is.  To
maintain  a   skate   park  that’s   not  made  of concrete   is to   constantly   be
renovating,  fixing, patching. Tools lay off   to the  side,  and  wooden  boards
and  bricks  wait  in the  wings. More than anything,  Sk8 Liborius is  a  labor
of love. The near  homonyms of  “Liborius”  and  “laborious”  did  not  fail  to
reach my ears.
    This    labor  of  love  continues under    the   twenty-five-thousand-square-
foot  skate  park. In  the basement is   the  Liborius   Urban   Arts   Studios,  a
makerspace and community arts center. It’s through  this nonprofit arm that
Sk8   Liborius gives  back  to the  community.  As  the   organizers   observed,
“Skating   is  an activity that speaks across social, racial, and economic  lines.
You  might  come from a  broken home, be poor  and  only   own  one pair  of
shoes,  but  you can be the  coolest  kid  in the  skate  park because you put in
the hard work and practice.”  

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