9/1/2018 Poetry By Liz N. Clift Ben Seidelman
Fiber Arts Braided red thread, a promise, a lead tied around the lover’s wrist, reminder of the way heartstring pull taut and loose and taut again even in grief, even in learning to speak again as I instead of we, as in I would love to come to your house for Christmas. Ignore the dewy angels in your friend’s eyes, molasses voice. The thread will weather, will fade like the bruises that once rocked your hips, the ones you begged for. You could once say choke me without fear. You could say hold me and find a beating heart beneath your ear. Christmas is garlands and tinsel, piano music mistaken for tears, silver gloves gripping a steering wheel against the sparkling world, the car static. If you knew it would end like this Your heart is not a fledgling, it will survive this fall. The thread a reminder to weave others into your life, to let them make your life richer, because you are tapestry and when it frays you must mend or let go. Radioactive Somewhere else I kissed him night air wood smoke and dry leaves, the weight of his hand on the small of my back an invitation. Somewhere else I wasn’t afraid of rooting my heart to his, or at least trying, the rootstock was good. A gold dust moment, worth nothing except the way it catches light as memory. The what-ifs, the maybes, the could haves the way he is water and stardust so very much alive. I want that moment frozen, like our breath stilled in the air. We’re fire and air and already dying. We’re the cigarette burning to filter and ash. Liz N. Clift holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Iowa State University. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in RATTLE, Passages North, Hobart, and others. She lives in Colorado. Comments are closed.
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