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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v118) (the July / August 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Drowning (a Down in the Dirt collection book)		get the 297 page July - Dec. 2013 Down in the Dirt magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

calling down mountains

Kaitlin Allen

    “Appalachians,” I say. Hard “c.”
    And you smile at me –
    The simpering one
    The humoring one
    The one I hate.
    Not as much as I hate my own smile with its crooked teeth, my own voice with its crooked words. Not near as much as that.
    I have trained the south out of my speech, the rocks out of my tongue. Trained like safety-pinned curtains, like twist-tied vines.
    But here my sibilants decide to make their stand.
    So you smile at me, tip your head to get a better feel of the word on your ears.
    The tip-tops of my ears grow red, I know because I can feel the heat.
    You press a glass into my hand letting yours linger.
    It’s bitter going down my throat, pride washed down with wine. I don’t like the taste of either.
    You can tell, the wrinkles by your eyes say, but you keep smiling as you order me a cola.
    You pay for everything I want. You watch me eat far too much far too fast.
    And if you notice the dirt beneath my bitten fingernails, you do not sneer.
    For this, I love you enough to forgive all your smiles.
    For this, I am content to be the girl you want to write.
    I will be the muse in the corner of your glass-walled flat.
    I will live the adjectives you want: unstudied, fresh, naîve.
    Then I will lose all of these to you and the city.
    I will leave and in going, leave you one last tale.
    I will leave before you see I have become someone else.
    You have become someone else too.
    This time, you are an artist.
    You find the wide-set of my eyes charming, the unstraightened twist of my nose, the slight curve of my hips.
    This time, I know better than to eat too much.
    Out to dinner with that couple you know, I curl my fingers around a fine-stemmed wine glass. My nails are clean and red.
    Your friend mentions their mountain home.
    It’s a quaint little cabin miles from civilization, miles from anywhere.
    But I know the name of its town.
    They invite us to join them.
    You agree for us both.
    “Oh, the Appalachians.” My tongue slides traitorous over the softened “c.”
    “I knew someone who lived there once.”

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