Ghosted Image of a Naked Girl

By Anne Riesenberg

Issue 34 • Fall 2016 • Nonfiction

FIRST PLACE NONFICTION IN THE 2016 SUMMER CONTEST

I admire this lyric essay for its seamless ability to move from the past into a latter-day assessment of the past and back again, over and over. Its counterpoint of the traumatic past with the welcome retrospective assures the reader the speaker has survived with intelligence and discernment intact. This is what Phillip Lopate calls the “double-consciousness” that sets the essay apart from fiction. It’s also beautifully written on the language level and tightly focused on the form level. – Debra Monroe

Summer comes I visit my sister she

moved east to live on a commune I fly

alone watch fields flicker green under

the wings she meets my plane we

head north the car smells briny wet

like the sea the road up the coast gets

smaller then smaller twists past

humps of granite stark clapboarded

churches tiny cemeteries furry with

moss white houses perch dark

shuttered in yards strewn with stones

water sparkles across fields full of

daisies the sky gets bluer the land

more and more bare wind tangles our

hair I can’t believe how happy I feel

We stop at a farmhouse gray with red

trim my sister’s boyfriend G and his

mother R father Z bring in my

suitcase six fifths of gin we bought on

the way the house feels lived in

layered with activities things in the

kitchen a slate sink under a window

that looks to the sea through another a

barn tattered flag peace sign up near

the peak the walls look like a collage

Jimi Hendrix posters newspaper

clippings tide charts local maps

In the living room a fireplace two

mustard couches a bookcase

crammed full I’m OK You’re OK

Rodale’s Organic Gardening Das

Kapital The Joy of Sex in the dining

room a mahogany cabinet full of

surprisingly delicate teacups two

large tapestry portraits one of Lenin

the other of Mao I follow my sister

upstairs my room has a view of the

garden a pond shaped like a comma

the field beyond leads to the shore the

tide is out mud glistens like chocolate

mousse

Fog every morning often all day mist

wraps the trees cool tendrils blend

land into soft shades of gray when the

sun burns through every leaf every

blade of grass shimmers I want to live

in the light stay outside as much as I

can mow lawn help on the boat hang

laundry weed vegetables gather the

eggs the hens nip my hands peck my

heels I love their bobbing heads

scurrying tangerine feet I find kittens

sleeping tucked into hay they smell

like warm milk suckle my shirt up a

hill past wind-scoured trees mica

flakes raspberry bushes silver puddles

caught in the rocks the ocean is

everywhere open and blue my body

unfolds like a fan

Ideas poke holes in the splendor turn

on tune in drop out back-to-the-land

free love non-monogamy self-

sufficiency anti-establishment of the

people for the people all woven

together into the farm as the younger

sister of a commune member my role

is tangential still I am expected to

follow the rules we meet after

breakfast to plan out the day discuss

the new society under construction

Z’s point of view directs the vision he

owns the land his forcefulness draws

people in

Non-monogamy dominates the

rhetoric the word fuck wanting

describing demanding saturates the

conversation G’s comments echo his

father’s potential new members nod

their heads ask for details R stays

mostly silent unfazed I wonder how

she can stand it sometimes my sister

tries to intervene she’s just a kid can

we give it a rest no one complies

July brings a fresh shipment of

Shakin’ Jamaican pot much stronger

than what I know G has friends over

one night pulls out his guitar pretends

to be Jimi I brush my hair out upside-

down wear the halter-top I made in

HomEc purple ribbon around my

neck I am a red-eyed confection the

party turns into a mini-Woodstock out

on the lawn I smoke too much weed

walk back and forth in my triangle of

cloth try to find a spot of ground

where I don’t feel dumb men don’t

eye me like prey

A few nights later I’m too high again

Z makes a second pitcher of martinis

takes off his clothes puts on what he

calls his orgy robe ties it too loose I

go up to my room lay face down on

my bed I want to fall asleep without

interruption but there’s no lock on my

door not one in the house Z equates

privacy with bourgeois notions of

property rights goes on about shared

rather than exclusive access to assets

I can hear people talking in the

kitchen Z shuffling around knocking

things over yelling motherfucker into

his off-key rendition of American Pie

the bed feels lumpy under my bones

my lips make a sucking sound when I

pull them apart try to swallow my

throat feels like a desert eyes

pummeled with sand the room spins I

see Bedouins camels trudging a

caravan of tents I wish I had a glass of

water a piece of the bread we made

before lunch fresh from the oven with

butter and cinnamon sugar I’d ground

the wheat berries by hand punched

down the dough kneaded it until my

arms ached put it into six pans six

loaves of heaven

The nightgown I bought at the church

sale sticks to my chest the pattern is

faded almost not there but I like the

lace at the neck the way it sits like

butterfly wings on my skin – skin –

skin is problematic there’s too much

of it too much attention paid to it we

bathe in the pond every day small

hard slivers of soap thin towels frayed

the size of dishcloths water fresh

smooth rusty brown swimming in the

pond is like floating in a cup of tea

leaf sediment from the oak trees

permeates every drop clings to the

fine hairs close to my skin the downy

covering never seen if I rolled on a

piece of paper I’d leave a slight

impression a ghosted image of a

naked girl

Z likes to swim out and stand on a

rock when he bathes he calls it the

Fucking Rock chuckles when he says

it like it’s a cute little joke he is a

gross old man graying body rumpled

gut I don’t want to see his penis

anyone’s for that matter but I’ve been

challenged – don’t be so uptight –

about the skinny dipping and I think

maybe I’ll feel more grown up maybe

participation will save me

He watches me swim wash my face

shampoo my hair calls to me from the

rock wash my back will you and it

sounds like a question but feels like a

demand and his eyes linger on my

breasts and I swim farther away and

he keeps looking and I can feel him

pulling me in and I end up on the rock

next to his long hairy legs with the

soap in my hand and my stomach in

my mouth and watch my fingers

move back and forth across his

sagging freckled skin

I shift around on the bed stare into the

bones of the roof inhale a century of

rising heat numbing cold asphalt

shingles tarry and baked I open the

window June bugs scrabble the

cobwebby screen the pond trembles a

silver streak under the moon I can’t

sleep the door creaks open I knew that

it would most nights it does it’s D it

could be worse he looks like a

lumberjack dark beard flannel shirt

doesn’t swear I’ve refused every one

of his advances still he keeps asking

hey are you up – what do you think I

try to sound annoyed how about I lie

down next to you – no we’ve been

through this before – I won’t do

anything we can just cuddle there’s no

harm in that is there – I don’t want to

– but I’m lonely – I’m sorry you’re

lonely c ompassion is how I survive

I’m only 13 don’t you want somebody

older – but you’re so pretty do you

know how pretty you are

I can’t decode my own sensations

deep habits of accommodation ache

to be cool I am sweaty cold numb all

I can do is talk my way through last

time it took over an hour before he

gave up and left nobody will come if

I yell finally he leaves sulking

dejected it has taken all I have to keep

his hands off my body his mouth from

my neck I feel hollow gray like a husk

corn stalks cicadas I am too tired to

cry still tears leak out

In the morning D Z and another man

talk about me while they eat breakfast

I sit on the bench under the window

and stare at my eggs any luck – nope

– all hail the Ice Queen then Z starts

in on my breasts have you seen her tits

they’re pointy like ICBMs lights his

pipe leans back in his chair sends

smoke streaming slowly from either

side of his mouth some day he says I

guarantee it I go out the door ask

grass sun trees sky to rectify what I

am losing what is already lost

Anne Riesenberg

Anne Riesenberg, an acupuncturist and meditation instructor from Portland, Maine, holds a recent MFA from Lesley University. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in The Maine Review, Monkeybicycle and Solstice Literary Magazine. She is a founding board member of Hewnoaks Artist Colony in Lovell, Maine.