One Night in the Midwest

By CATHERINE ESTHER COWIE

I smell her—
she is in the bed sheets
conjuring aged summers
when popsicles stained
our mouths red,
and the sun colored
our noses black.
We wore her jewels proud,
brown bodies glistening
in our neon pink and purple suits.
She tangled our hair with her touch,
kissed hard, too often,
rolled us around until we landed
back flat on the shore.

How has she come here,
left her scent?
I hear her,
the missing roar
in a left-open window—
a call home
to her sargassum-filled belly,
and dirt roads twisting
around sodden hills.

But I am accustomed to this place,
the naked trees open to the sky,
the neat brick apartment buildings,
the thick white thighs of winter.
How do I tell her what she is now—
a closeted self,
a party-trick I pull out
—sad story of missing the sea.

 

Catherine Esther Cowie was born on the Caribbean island of St. Lucia and has lived in Canada and the U.S. She is a graduate of the 2017 Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, and her writing has appeared inThe Penn Review; Glass: A Journal of Poetry; Forklift, Ohio; Flock; and Moka Magazine, with new works forthcoming in Potomac Review, Southern Humanities Review, and Portland Review. Recently, she graduated from the Pacific University low-residency MFA program. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

[Purchase Issue 19 here.]

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

One Night in the Midwest

Related Posts

Contrail across blue sky

July 2025 Poetry Feature: New Poems by our Contributors

GEOFFREY BROCK
Sing, O furrow-browed youth, / of the contrails scoring the sky, / bright as lines of cocaine / until, as they age, the eye // loses them to the blue… / Sing of the thin-skinned plane / that made those ephemeral clouds, / and of all that each contains: // the countless faceless strangers

Fenway Park

Before They Traded Devers

AIDAN COOPER
I don’t know I’m not paying attention I’m crunching / peanut shells thinking Murakami began to write novels / because of baseball why don’t I / my dad’s grumpy / I’m vegetarian now & didn’t want a frank & yes it’s probably / a phase he’s probably right but it’s a good phase

Cover of All Is The Telling by Rosa Castellano

An Embodied Sense of Time: Raychelle Heath Interviews Rosa Castellano

ROSA CASTELLANO
I’m holding a blank page all the time for myself. That’s a truth that I choose to believe in: the blank page is a tool for our collective liberation. It can be how we keep going. I love that we can find each other on the page and heal each other, too. So, I invoke that again and again, for myself, because I need it.