Dear Readers,
Something strange has happened. Almost 500 people decided to submit to Thimble. That means 500 people learned about us. That means 500 people wanted us for a home—isn’t that something?
There is lots to say about this fabulous issue, but what I really want to talk about is a poem not in the issue, namely “Dolores, Maybe” by John Murillo. Perhaps you’ve read it, but perhaps you haven’t. (If you haven’t, please consider this a trigger warning.)
In the poem, the narrator, describes a childhood incident in which he walks a neighbor home, and she flinches when he touches her hair. We, the reader and the narrator, know something the narrator’s child-self doesn’t; the neighbor is a victim of abuse and later takes her own life.
While tragic and hard to read, the unforgettable poem is the perfect Thimble poem. It embodies everything we stand for. The poem contains the three-t’s (in addition to being masterful verse, of course): It is tender, about trauma, and contains a transformation. Here at Thimble, we start with what is gentle: the need to keep safe, the vulnerable parts of ourselves, like a story from childhood, like the Primeval Blues, or a fragile coat made of blue raccoon fur. Not that all our poems and prosody deal with trauma, of course, but in a journal about shelter it makes sense which way we would skew. We wouldn’t need shelter from the storm if there weren’t storms. And there are: we have fat girls on fire, breakups, night jackets, memory, love, crosswalks.
Most importantly, “Delores, Maybe” contains a transformation. The last lines are haunting: “I gathered a handful of my coyote’s bones, his teeth, / and strung them all on fishing wire—/ a talisman to ward off anguish. A talisman I hold out to you now. / Please. Come closer. Take this from my hand.” Pain becomes memory becomes poem becomes a reader’s to carry.
A thimble can be a shelter.
Take this as a talisman—not of all we’ve suffered but that we’re still here.
Best,
Nadia Arioli
