
the blueshift journal
blueshift / ˈblo͞oˌSHift / noun
the displacement of the spectrum to shorter wavelengths in the light coming from distant celestial objects moving toward the observer.
A POEM ABOUT A JULY CAMP SESSION ENDING WITH MADRIGAL V. QUILLIGAN
for Maria
​
I.
​
This was the summer of purification
Of scrubbing my palms raw to the sound
of beach towels beaten on crooked cabin steps
It was how we chose to spend our workdays:
thickening our skins for a Baptist camp we could
never afford Bleach catapulting from the shower head
to floor space with wet grass still caught on the back
of her leg Maria would never tell me much of
anything except puta burra ​after cleaner landed in my
mouth and often blaming me for all her missed shifts
and once when she said I looked like a whale with
my arms strapped onto the floating dock rocking the
whole thing until her ankles were flashes of lightning
After camp everyone would return to home and Maria
to Summerville where I wouldn’t have to see her
again Where you can walk on powdered shells for miles
before reaching something of the ocean that will
have your back Bright lights strung on piers and the
Amtrak that can go a little further but it wasn’t until
the last day after turning green while cleaning she spoke
of being pregnant I don’t want to write this poem
but I can’t knock this sense of a torpedo entering
the shallows or something wavering just out of the porch
light and I wonder if that’s how Maria felt on those nights
she fell asleep with her mud caked shoes fastened On
As if when needing to could make a run for it.
II.
This was the summer of unlocking fists to
extend my hands I wanted her trust more than anything
but when I asked Maria about seeing a doctor
she said I know what they believe of my baby ​All
the tricked out other words How sterile walls will
squeeze her open The ghosts of mothers and sisters
Leaving with dried bellies She said I know what they
would say ​A Pair of blue hands signing out a secret
message: They will not be mourned For come December
when the ghost train shuts down and the colored bulbs
along the pier are packed away you will want to go back
You will realize our whistled lies You will realize how
little of you we want.