Lying in the Snow on Rockhill Street
It is winter. In my body,
Christmas lights buzz,
thawing through my liver.
Your string light smile,
your unblinking icy eye--
I bury all of it in the busted brick
on the corner of our apartment
and the two years between us.
I think about the traffic light,
its passionless pulsations
of red, fire, wanting. Its please
slow down whisper-scream
lighting the also red brick
of your body coated with fingers
of frost. Filling my socks with a quiet
indignation, I suspend the moment the white headlight
reflracts against your pupil, Cars halt
at the end of our street. I buried you
because I loved you. Dusk scratches its cold
fingers across the sky. I thumb through
your dusty book filled with diagrams
of moth species. My back is scarred pink
with the little lines of your fingernails. A car screeches
against the ice. This street is too slick to drive down.
Tires gouge the quiet place where
I buried _____. When spring enters
your unfamiliar body, the lunar moth
lays its bright eggs in the frozen
indentation where two bodies
once frozen together
nestled. In my body,
winter warms everything crimson.
Before delicate rosy keloid scars grow over gashes,
you held me hyperventilating on the beige carpet of our apartment.
The blue veins in your wrist spoke to my pulse.
My pulse quieted to irregular palpitations
that matched your coronary defect
you never treated. Yes, wounds can speak,
as can impressions left in fabric
and wet stains on pleated skirts.
I thought our stains complimented each other
tenderly. I want to tell you that I am not angry
at your left earring, or your face that looks somehow
less familiar in every picture. I am not resentful
for the nights you coiled up alone on the couch
in the living room. Instead, I remember your loving
fingers rubbing the knots out of my tangled spine.
I think about the way you held me
the night after the night
after the night I was raped by a friend.
How do I come back from this? I am not sure
I know. However, I am thanking you
back into my birth for you being born as you.
I am not sure I am ready, but eventually I want
to be split open kindly;
a bleeding receptacle
Hallie Nowak is a poet and artist writing and residing in Fort Wayne, Indiana, where she is in pursuit of her undergraduate degree in English at Purdue University Fort Wayne. She is the author of Girlblooded, a poetry chapbook (Dandelion Review, 2018). Her work can also be read in Okay Donkey and Noble/Gas Qrtrly where her poem, “A Dissected Body Speaks,” was awarded runner-up for the 2018 Birdwhistle Prize. Twitter: @heyguysimhallie Instagram: @hallie_nowak
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.