Kaitlyn Duling is a midwesterner and Illinoisan at heart, though she currently resides (happily!) in Pittsburgh, PA. She is a graduate of the Program in Creative Writing at Knox College in Galesburg, IL. Her poems have found homes in Denver Quarterly, The Fourth River, Ninth Letter, Midwestern Gothic, East Bay Review, IDK Magazine, and Big Muddy, among others. She also writes educational nonfiction for children and teens. Visit her at www.kaitlynduling.com Not a guide to stain removalGrass stains. Blood stains. Bleachon teeth or denim. And freckles.And dimples near the small of your back. And red streaks on white skin in tight spaces. The moment I realize you love meor you don’t. The best damn chocolate cakeyou’ll ever have. The recipe. The night your father walked away; the night everyonewalked away, or seemed to. The morningafter, or every morning after, or upon waking. The scar on the side of your left foot from somethingyou don’t remember. Fingerprints in wet clay.Carpet burns. The first moment you sawmountains. Tears on shouldersof strangers. One year after your father died. Wrinkles on pillows in bedrooms that cannot, will not be smoothed. The day you became a parent. The moments you wanted to hit your child. Your child. A smooth stone. Water on rocks, rocks on soil, soil on the knees of your khakis when you drop.Ink on paper, especially. Paring knives in ripe apples; potato peelers in hands. Hands on anyone. Rock n’ roll music. That space in the centerof your collar bone, just below the throat. The moment you press into life, tender and deliberate, with just enough pressure to feel it pulsing back.
