Love, Cait

I know what I have put you through.
I have dripped candle wax on your fingers
and asked you to sew security blankets, and I am sorry for that.
I have led you into thorn bushes
poured blood onto the soil and blamed the roses.
Time and time again
I have blindfolded you with the neck ties of angry men,
cinched them so tightly that stars popped behind your eyelids
and your baby hairs broke.

I know that I have passed up feather beds,
have sought out coffins.
I know that there is grass along the path, surely,
but my feet seem to find the glass shards
and I lose time, waking up in needles.

Then again, there are days when
I know that I am bleeding, but
maybe I have forgotten whose fault it really was, was it
the roses, was it my ankles, should I have walked
into the garden in the first place?

I have been told that the men who hold the guns
are the ones who do the killing,
that they should be held responsible,
but I still worry that my teeth are hungry for their bullets.

My heart of my heart of my heart believes

that there is a happy ending in here somewhere,

and I am sorry that I spent so much time smearing it with black ink

choking and unable to swallow the possibility of possibility 

I'd like to say things will be different. 

I'd like you to trust me on this one.

But the track record is bleak, and I understand if you don't.

I promise I'll be here either way.

I promise I'm not leaving this time. 

What It Really Feels Like

the last time I wrote about you, I said
this is what it feels like to stay
and then we spent a full year leaving.
we spent a full year on a seesaw
one of us rooted to the ground, feet planted in desperation
the other rocketing toward some wild escape
and then trading places
never in the same place at the same time

until now.

how did we finally get here, my sweet summer breeze,
to this quiet spot in the grass
giggling like school children when we find a shiny bug, or tell a stupid joke
rolling around, kicking up pollen, sneezing, and laughing some more

the last time I wrote about you, I said
this is what it feels like to stay
and I don't think I knew what it meant.

it was a pearl I had picked up in low tide, a beacon,
a wish that I whispered to you at dusk,
an incantation,
and I suppose it came true,
even though our path to staying was midnight black and too sharp
and we cut our fingers on the handrails, crying
reaching for each other even in the pitch darkness
even through eclipse season,
we stayed
even through the leaving
we stayed

and after a full year of hacking away at the underbrush together
one fallen branch at a time
we saw the sun through the trees
and we followed it.
day by day, we followed it
like a covenant 

and now we don't rush anymore.
we don't leap away from the ground most days,
we don't dive headlong into defeat,
we don't leave.
we stay
in the dappled sunlight,
resting in meadows along the way
we stay
and we keep walking
and we do it together
and I know what it means now. 

What It Feels Like To Stay

I find myself asking questions like:

What would happen if I stayed curled under you like ribbon

for the next ten years,

twenty,

fifty?

How long would it take for us to turn to soil –

food for the flowers you brought me –

and make our bed into a home for grass snakes and earthworms?

There is something about the slowness

of your hands in my hair

that makes me want to stretch out like a stone, stay here for decades,

and wait for your breath to run over me like water

smoothing my edges and polishing my skin

until I am soft and green in your palms.

I want to ask you questions like:

How long will you stay canopied over me,

all rainforest sounds, the hush of hibiscus blooming,

shielding me from the scorch of the Texas sun?

How long do you want me here,

in the crook of your elbow,

eyes closed,

drinking you up?

Because I could stay here

for the next ten years,

twenty,

fifty,

watching the stars spin above us,

waiting for time to get tired of passing,

holding each other by the waist

and knowing

that we are right where we are supposed to be.

Kintsugi

historically, poems like this have been bulleted lists

of the ways in which I will fail you,

the ash in my palms

the flowers that have died in my kitchen

the sheer lack of certainty you would feel

if I were to kiss you twice in a row

but it is January, and I am opening the windows

filling my apartment with fresh air

and something inside of me is saying,

try again

I am drinking coffee in the mornings now

instead of battery acid

and I ask for the things I want

and I say no sometimes

so maybe things are looking up,

maybe

I can reach for you and I can find your shoulders

without smearing tar all over your shirt

I am starting to suspect

that the soil in my hair has not been there in vain

flowers are starting to sprout from seeds

I never knew I had planted

I know I have a tendency to fall and scrape my knees

and I’m sure it will happen again while we are walking together, but

I promise I am getting better at pulling myself up

I promise I will only ask you to give me a hand,

not to throw your back out lifting me from the sidewalk

I am consistently amazed

when I watch you breathe all the way to your toes

while you sleep next to me

it is almost like you are not afraid

that you will wake up to find me shattered, or gone

maybe this is a testament

to the sunflowers I have been swallowing,

maybe

it is time to open the cupboards

and let the broken china fall to the floor

and start mending it with molten gold

maybe I can be mended, too

maybe I already am

Summer

you poke holes in your belly with sharp claws
hoping the sludge in your intestines will seep out
and stay away

the feeling is like this:
tears cannot pull enough gray water out of your eyes
to cleanse you

and you know you have always been this way
black jet planes flying under your radar
biochemical warfare raging in your gut

and your childhood self has been underground all these years
holding her hands over her ears
as the bomb shelter shudders

you tell yourself, I can just paint my nails yellow
I can just roll the car windows down
the yellow sun will chase this bone-deep chill away

but you wake up with your head in a vice again
no matter how many sunburns you give yourself
it is still cold in your apartment

you are so tired of existing inside this skin
folding and rolling and throwing new shadows on the wall
this belly that cannot be tamed

you pump your hands over your chest a little too hard
begging your heart to wake up
to send love letters to your hands and feet

and you wait for the day
when the yellow sun will spark a flame under your scalp
and your hair will catch fire

it may not be today
but you tell yourself
that the summer will warm you up sooner or later

it has to.
just hold out a little longer.

Valentine

the sway of sea water stomached,

this rising-falling this drowning

it is black-spotted in broad daylight

it is five months alone now

it is Valentine’s Day today

the red

wraps my cut wrists, the red

teases with ribbon lips against my throat

the singed edges on this picture I am holding, of your owl’s teeth

last summer and the last summer, sweating honey, hooting

the smallest hairs on your head in my hands

downy fluff, little razors

I don’t want to go back I don’t want to go back

to the loneliness with you

roosting inside my ribcage, whispering secrets

the oil slicks under your tongue,

under your sheets,

all in our bed, our beautiful bed

I don’t want to go back I don’t want to go back

the trip wires you set the trap doors

you shining spotlight teeth across the room,

swords in your dresser drawers, laughing,

“just take your armor off!”

but

it is Valentine’s Day today

the red

snakes under my skirt, reminds me

we planted seeds in each other’s skin and I am

still cutting the stems

the act of loving is beautiful in itself

the heart can’t be blamed, can it

and I did love you, didn’t I

miss you I don’t want to

go back go back go back

roses

I have tasted so many flowers by now. Touched petal after petal to the pink of my tongue and sung the perfume through my throat. And spring is coming back today and the garden is coming back and I am following my feet through the soil, counting on my hands the things I have learned. I have learned that almost every plant has thorns. They twist circles over my ankles and ask questions in my skin as I walk. They ask too much of me, always. My own vines have woven into thickets around my wrists as I have gotten older. After so many cuts. And I have also learned that plants grow from blood. Fruits, flowers, green leaves. All from the blood that falls from my mouth when I taste the petals and their thorns prick my tongue. All from the blood that falls from my ankles as I walk. It feeds the soil. They tell us in school that we have the rain and the sun to thank – and those do help – but I have learned that blood climbs into plant stems like magic spells, that life comes from life. From pain. So I stay barefoot. And I plant roses again this year.