The origin of sound was my bare
feet curling around blades
of grass as I circled, ditch to ditch,
waiting for the perfect, pious set of
headlights to beam me into the beak
of something that wouldn’t spit
me out. The origin of heat is that night
I spent in the cornfield. Shards of stalk, ear
to the ground. No headlights. The origin
of girlhood is dust and those boys
doing keg stands. The origin of a story
is that the moon hadn’t even stumbled
through the horizon but I had. Into bedsheets
that were more scratchy than his sandpaper
chin against my clavicle. The origin of sex
is a barstool. Five dollar fifties and there’s no
place like home. The origin of home is
the sun will burn up some day
and I learned that the same day I learned
how to spell ther-mom-et-er
which was the same day
one of those boys thrust his hand up my shirt
behind the birch tree at recess. The origin
of that tree is my pinky finger gone
black, blood pooling under boot, headlights
so far in the distance I can’t taste them.
The origin of this poem is a cornfield
and my mud-soaked teenage wings
have gone feral.
Yoda Olinyk (she/her) loves to make people comfortable, which is too bad because she is a poet. When she’s not writing or editing, Yoda works as an abortion doula and workshop guide for people in recovery. Her work has appeared in many beloved journals, including Rattle and The Shore. She has published a memoir about restaurant life and is working on her second anthology. You can find her at www.doulaofwords.com.
