Paulann Petersen
When the Fur Shop on Sandy Boulevard was Razed Decades Ago
Dander that had sifted
from thousands of animal pelts
into the shop’s floorboard cracks
fell to dirt newly exposed. Then was covered
by asphalt’s dark ooze.
Bits of my dander, too. Sloughed-off skin cells.
Jots of sleep that crusted the corners of my eyes.
Lint from my blue gingham dress.
And more dross from my grandparents,
the furrier and his wife, Archie and Ann.
Shoe-shine flake. Loose face powder, talc.
The rime from epsom salts.
Caked lipstick, wisps of gray hair.
All that, now beneath
a parking lot for a bicycle store.
Nana and Archie and me, we’re under there
with the minks and conies and karakuls.
Mixed into chinchillas, foxes, Persian lambs.
Side by side with bits of the skins
my grandfather wet down before his blade
cut them into diagonal strips.
Far to the east, Mt. Hood shines its pale temple.
Westward and nearby, the Willamette River
makes its wide, sea-close surge.
Burial mound. Paved over.
From that scent of damp animal fur,
not even a trace remains
to waft the air.
Paulann Petersen, Oregon Poet Laureate Emerita, has eight full-length books of poetry, most recently My Kindred from Salmon Poetry of Ireland. A former Stegner Fellow at Stanford University, she’s the recipient of the Holbrook Award from Literary Arts, and Willamette Writers’ Distinguished Northwest Writer Award. The Latvian composer Eriks Esenvalds chose one of her poems as the lyric for a choral composition that’s now in the repertoire of the Choir at Trinity College, Cambridge. Recently, one of her poems was featured on American Public Media’s The Slowdown.
