“Writing as a process has the potential to be transformative. I often consider writing as a gift, and when I say gift, I don’t mean talent; I mean something given to me.” - Danika Stegeman

Danika Stegeman’s second book, Ablation, was released by 11:11 Press in November 2023. Her book Pilot (2020) was published by Spork Press. She’s a 2023 recipient of a grant from the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund and recently spent a 2-week residency in Marathon, TX outside Big Bend National Park.

Welcome to the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey. Danika, what poems have you brought for us today?

Swallowtail

"If you cannot cry, ask
what is wrong with your body."
- Han VanderHart, What Pecan Light

On the bank of the river we love through our lives,
a black swallowtail alights on a ditch flower.

My daughter’s arms circle her torso in joy of fastening boots.
In her swaying, she strikes my neck, hard. Tears well in my eyes,
because I can’t remember the last time someone hit me. I don’t
remember being a person hit by someone she loved until I’m
struck again. I can’t describe the feeling. In my mind, with language,
I don’t remember being hit. But my body remembers.

Black swallowtail | yellow swallowtail, envoy of symmetry.

When my sister was the same age as my daughter,
she hurled a tumbler into the heart of a low, square table
with a glass top. The table was beloved by her dad, my stepdad,
and, consequently, beloved by our mom, particularly after
my stepdad died in a head-on collision with a semi-truck

while driving home from work. | The tabletop shattered.

The physical violence wasn’t as bad as the turning away,
the guttural sound in her throat when she tore us in strips.
I have a voice that was only for my mom. Pleading, conciliatory,

asleep at the wheel. | I’d forgotten swallowtails exist.

I can’t cry observed. I shade my eyes, move to corners.
I excuse myself, leave rooms and close doors. I keen into
bedspreads, hangered jackets, wadded towels.

His stomach was in his throat. | I didn’t know swallowtails could be black.

Are you happy, my girl asks, are you happy? The square of glass
too dear, the table was never made whole.

The river rolls its stone into kettles. | Stone carves the kettles.
The kettles are carved in stone.
---------

from Ablation (3)

Some days
I’m made of bone.
Other days I’m made of
water. Some days I’ve got no skin
and tears
pour from
my eyes and spill over my hands
as I rinse jars for jam.
Some days I’ve got
no words.


I try
not to count the
beta blockers she took
to calm her heart. I try not to
count each
worthless
pill. Glaciers flow like very slow
rivers. Every place I
love was covered
in ice.


Every
place I love was
carved open by moving
water my chest echoes. I can’t
tell you
what it
means. I can’t tell you what it is
to hold love and hurt in
the same organ.
I can’t.


You're listening to the poems of Danika Stegeman on the Poets Weave. I'm Romayne Rubinas Dorsey.