I took an intersection as a lover. A strung-out longing as a guide. Instead of armour, I had lust without a place to set it down. I turned it into sibilance: by my bed I kept a printout of her lips. Side by side, we made a vicious chop.
Everywhere I went I carried many scarves. Why, because I heard about a gorgeous woman come undone. I went to the arena, devoured lists of verbs. Why, because I always made my way to abscess – two hands around a yellow light.
Now I want everything in one neat grid, or wild. Yes, then I want a hook to hang my coat. If anything comes back to me, I embellish it in thin gold leaf. Of course I can’t remember why I put this space between her eyes.
I call myself a daughter. I knew I could go further so I did. My arms, my legs, my fragrant pleas now flattened and mad. Please stay with me, a shadow. By my bed I keep a printout of your lips.
Cecilia Stuart’s work has appeared in Plenitude, Bad Dog, PRISM international and elsewhere. She is the author of HOUNDS (above/ground press 2020) and Mudroom (Anchorage Press 2018, with Adrian Kiva). She lives in Toronto.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan