Where Marva Went, and: Lineage, and: Girl, and: Love Story #1: Notes from the Archivist's Logbook

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• Where Marva Went, and: Lineage, and: Girl, and: Love Story #1: Notes from the Archivist's Logbook
• L. Renée (bio)

WHERE MARVA WENT

Bluefield, Virginia, 1957

"If you lie, you'll steal; if you steal, you'll kill."

–Black Appalachian Proverb

Last seen: Coke bottle gal gettin in bruise blue DeVille Last seen: Devil blue suit gettin in too

Last seen: Grown-look-a-like molasses legs Last seen: Legs wearin chilren-frilly-cuff socks

Last seen: Ol' man's wide brown hand Last seen: Hand wearin gold-plated weddin band

Last heard: Metal porch door wailin fa sure Last heard: "I'll be right back" flung through screen

Last heard: "Where Marva goin?" Half-Pint sis say Last heard: "Where fast gals get mo miles." Full-Quart sis say

Last heard: Engine sputterin haint blue growl Last heard: Tires crushin rocks to dirt [End Page 138]

LINEAGE

Given that our beginnings cannot be tracedby autosomal DNA alone—

the double helix script terminating1,000 years ago, while ancient hieroglyphs writlarge on my waning eyes moonlight as seers—

I won't wear all of my unknowinglike a sad sack of potatoes, weepinginto rootless dirt—

but, still, again, I am always naked,in the garden, rooting around for someone's God-hand to attach to my searching, hand-me

-downs that they are, knowledgeof, at least, the green shadow thumbthat may have spun us from jute once—

and now, me, descendantof the dissidents, marked as I am,my own spoiled body, spilledand slipping out my gunny dress—

my mummy breast beating, breathingthrough innumerable mouths,famished as we are for relationsrelative to more than just survival—

we who fashion for ourselvessomething still elusiveto science and religion, somethingthat refuses quantification— [End Page 139]

[End Page 140]

GIRL

holder of secrets a thing that can be kept keeps this body shuddering.silence still vibrates inside of movement. where do i return inside my- self left entangled, mangled by the many

wasted hours with other wasteful bodies?

what then is left to praise? to form? what of landscapes— the majesty of craters, the empty magma—the evidence

there was once something worthy of eruption?

most days I still need proof that surfaces are mutable—

that this body can withstand the impact imprinted

on my skin. [End Page 141]

LOVE STORY #1: NOTES FROM THE ARCHIVIST'S LOGBOOK

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Mama holds the knife. The knife is already slicing cake when Daddy's hand guides it gently, his eyes looking at the audience of onlookers, her eyes looking at what size cuts a fair portion.

DATE:	11/22/2020
ROUTE:	UNMAPPED
TYPE OF PILOTING TIME:	UNKNOWN
TOTAL DURATION OF FLIGHT:	UNKNOWN
REMARKS AND ENDORSEMENTS:	PLEASE SEE BELOW

[End Page 142]

I am always looking for a love story. When I was in middle school, whenI started to see boys as more than just opponents to beat at tetherballor a game of H-O-R-S-E, I fantasized that I'd meet my beloved at the library.

He'd be on one side of a bookshelf, and I'd be on the other. We'd reach forthe same book at the same time, then lock eyes. It'd be over after that.We'd obviously share the same taste. We'd like the same things and want

to go to the same places and would always get along. I thought, then, whenyou loved someone, you always got along. My fantasy didn't rememberthat call numbers were on book spines, so it'd be nearly impossible

for me and my beloved to look for the same book when one of us couldn'tread the book title, housed on the opposite side of the shelf. Last time I wenthome, I asked all my elders how my grandparents met. Nobody knew.

I asked them how this was possible. The not knowing. How, when they plannedmy grandparents' 50^th Anniversary Party? How, when they picked out yellowcarnation corsages and boutonnieres? My mother says she never thought to ask.

Aunt Rosetta says young...