SUMMER ONION
Each time I hold a blade
I remember the scars
pale and smooth on her skin,
raised tracks of a derailed
despair. How my best
friend’s sleeves stayed drawn
like shades against the summer
heat. The angry red-purple
of the word BITCH
carved with a kitchen knife
into her olive abdomen
like initials in tree bark. In love
and confused, how I carved
careful crosses into
my knees— penitent
even then, my hand not yet
brave or desperate enough
to cut with sharper
than a thumb tack or safety pin.
How I learned to lean in
to pain— other harms, hidden
more easily and she learned
to forget my clumsy advances.
Years later, here on my cutting
board, the first of the summer onions.
Its fragrant leaves laid out, tubes
of green still stretching toward
the nearby window light, trying
to syphon warmth and nourishment
down to the pale bulb below. Buried
no longer, exposed to my eye
which follows each delicate vein
running along the surface
to the root still clinging to soil.
Naked without its tunic, this skin
just the first scale of many
meticulously wrapped layers
protecting the bud
whose flower may never come
or whose bloom has come
and gone. Still, as I slice
across each thin sleeve,
it rallies its sulfurous defenses
making me weep without
sadness. As I slide
the pieces into the pan
the sap sticks to my skin,
burning my mouth as I lick
it raw from my fingers. Heat
soon will soften each wedge,
its sweetness lingering long
after I’ve swallowed it all.
I remember the scars
pale and smooth on her skin,
raised tracks of a derailed
despair. How my best
friend’s sleeves stayed drawn
like shades against the summer
heat. The angry red-purple
of the word BITCH
carved with a kitchen knife
into her olive abdomen
like initials in tree bark. In love
and confused, how I carved
careful crosses into
my knees— penitent
even then, my hand not yet
brave or desperate enough
to cut with sharper
than a thumb tack or safety pin.
How I learned to lean in
to pain— other harms, hidden
more easily and she learned
to forget my clumsy advances.
Years later, here on my cutting
board, the first of the summer onions.
Its fragrant leaves laid out, tubes
of green still stretching toward
the nearby window light, trying
to syphon warmth and nourishment
down to the pale bulb below. Buried
no longer, exposed to my eye
which follows each delicate vein
running along the surface
to the root still clinging to soil.
Naked without its tunic, this skin
just the first scale of many
meticulously wrapped layers
protecting the bud
whose flower may never come
or whose bloom has come
and gone. Still, as I slice
across each thin sleeve,
it rallies its sulfurous defenses
making me weep without
sadness. As I slide
the pieces into the pan
the sap sticks to my skin,
burning my mouth as I lick
it raw from my fingers. Heat
soon will soften each wedge,
its sweetness lingering long
after I’ve swallowed it all.
A Conversation with Erica Charis-Molling
1. Since you published with Crab Creek Review, how has your work grown or changed? What excites you now that maybe didn't back then?
When this poem was published I was entirely focused on finalizing my edits for my first chapbook, due out in April 2022. I was so absorbed in that chapbook's world that I had no idea what was next. But I had come across these black and white photos in a box of unclaimed pictures taken from my grandmother's house. They were poorly labeled, if they were labeled at all, but I was inexplicably drawn to them. I told my mother "These are poems. I don't know how, but I know they're poems." Fast forward a few months and those pictures have become a new poetry project about unspoken family stories, Maine history, and a flooded town. It's a sort of lyric-ekphrastic exploration of my roots and I'm excited to see where it leads.
2. Is there a particular piece of advice you received that you found yourself returning to as you've written over the years? Is there any advice you would give to writers submitting their work?
I'm paraphrasing, but one of my MFA mentors said to me once, "You're not a machine, you are a field--you need fallow time to feed your productive time." That's saved me so many times from the anxiety spiral that often follows a quiet season in my writing life! Regarding submissions, I'd say think about who you most want to connect to with your poem, in terms of audience. Is there a certain person or group of people you picture the poem being most meaningful to? Then find the publication where those readers are gathered.
3. What are you reading?
I'm currently picking my way through French works in translation from non- white/male poets. I'd wanted to get to know contemporary French poetry, but I kept getting pointed to the same white, male poets. The good folks on Twitter gathered an alternative reading list for me and I'm slowly picking my way through it. Currently "Screwball" by Anne Kawala, translated by Kit Schluter is on top of the pile and it's so outside my usual reading—I've been enjoying it immensely.
4. What are you working on?
I've been working on a little bit of French translation here and there. I've been slowly working away at the ekphrastic poems I mentioned earlier, which I've been calling the "dead water poems." But mostly, if I'm completely honest with you, I've just been working on figuring out my writing life postpartum! I've got a three month old at home now and I'm still trying to find a balance of childcare, paying work, and creative work.
When this poem was published I was entirely focused on finalizing my edits for my first chapbook, due out in April 2022. I was so absorbed in that chapbook's world that I had no idea what was next. But I had come across these black and white photos in a box of unclaimed pictures taken from my grandmother's house. They were poorly labeled, if they were labeled at all, but I was inexplicably drawn to them. I told my mother "These are poems. I don't know how, but I know they're poems." Fast forward a few months and those pictures have become a new poetry project about unspoken family stories, Maine history, and a flooded town. It's a sort of lyric-ekphrastic exploration of my roots and I'm excited to see where it leads.
2. Is there a particular piece of advice you received that you found yourself returning to as you've written over the years? Is there any advice you would give to writers submitting their work?
I'm paraphrasing, but one of my MFA mentors said to me once, "You're not a machine, you are a field--you need fallow time to feed your productive time." That's saved me so many times from the anxiety spiral that often follows a quiet season in my writing life! Regarding submissions, I'd say think about who you most want to connect to with your poem, in terms of audience. Is there a certain person or group of people you picture the poem being most meaningful to? Then find the publication where those readers are gathered.
3. What are you reading?
I'm currently picking my way through French works in translation from non- white/male poets. I'd wanted to get to know contemporary French poetry, but I kept getting pointed to the same white, male poets. The good folks on Twitter gathered an alternative reading list for me and I'm slowly picking my way through it. Currently "Screwball" by Anne Kawala, translated by Kit Schluter is on top of the pile and it's so outside my usual reading—I've been enjoying it immensely.
4. What are you working on?
I've been working on a little bit of French translation here and there. I've been slowly working away at the ekphrastic poems I mentioned earlier, which I've been calling the "dead water poems." But mostly, if I'm completely honest with you, I've just been working on figuring out my writing life postpartum! I've got a three month old at home now and I'm still trying to find a balance of childcare, paying work, and creative work.
Erica Charis-Molling is a lesbian poet, educator, and librarian. Her writing has been published in literary journals including Relief, Tinderbox, Redivider, Vinyl, and Entropy. Her poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and published in the 2021 Orison anthology. A Massachusetts Cultural Council Fellow, she received her M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Antioch University. Her chapbook, How We Burn, will be published as a part of the Robin Becker Series by Seven Kitchens Press in April 2022.