Poetry by Danielle Garland

                ​Tony Webster CC


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My worry practices knowing all the ways I will lose you

A blade slicing your best tattoo
in half / A bullet through your mouth 
/ A belt along your throat / A breath held
so long it becomes not-breath /
Your blood emptying into trash bin
or bathtub or gravel lot / The wrong number
of hours alone / A tongueful
of sedatives / A five dollar six-pack 
and a cheek of Grizzly mint pouches 
/ A quick drive off the Blue Ridge
Parkway / Don’t we always laugh
at the railings there / so low,
so impotent / Maybe it will be the flames 
behind you / Or maybe something you do
not choose / On a day you are whole, 
blood-full, breathing / A foot on too-slick ground 
/ Your leaking heart / A jolt and a twisting
of metal / Why are there always more ways to lose you
than to keep you here / And what counts as here anyway /
Are you still here, bathed in a deep ache / Held
by pillows and darkened rooms / My worry, always
looking for your absence / My worry, always holding
my breath, always nudging me to search
for you / Even as we are together, buried
in laughter / My worry, always
fighting to keep itself alive /




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Rhododendron Winter

When you find your branches
indolent and brittle;
when you have forgotten 
colors other than tan, 
beige, gray, ash;
when you find your 
sense of wilt and 
decay heightened; 
know there is always 
something under the dead,
the sleeping, the empty
handed. You must only decide 
to seek it. Scramble
to that adequate elevation, 
where roots cling like regrets
to the mountain. Wait for that 
precise angle of light, when 
the sun is neither
accusing nor neglectful. 
Wait, breath held, 
to find illuminated 
what has been thriving 
beneath all along. 
Something forever 
wax-leaf glittering in the sun.

Danielle Garland (she/her) is based in southern Appalachia where she strives to love freely and live slowly (and to strive less). You can find her adventures in poetry and in the woods on IG @_daniellegarland

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