12/6/2017 Poetry by Sarah DesRosiers-LegaultThe Cave Its belly decorated by hundreds of silken strands, like ivory beads that pour down past the scalloped rim of a flapper girl’s dress. But these ones stay still. They don't sway over warm thighs, they hang in the empty. Waiting. They belong to the worms. Lines set, Their glowing bodies become a canopy. A pretend galaxy that coats the limestone ceiling, one they own. They beckon for the lost. Midges or mayflies, they see no different and the lost see only perfect pearls that dangle from stars. With one touch they're taken, eaten alive. They took me too, and sometimes I still call them beautiful. *Poem inspired by the episode Caves from Planet earth. Stuck I stare out the window at the hovering, for needled beaks to meet nectar, but bodies so still. Maybe dead for a moment, wings blurred by eyes not meant to see them. I think of all the eyes not meant to see me. When I was five I learnt how to leave my body. Now I seem to have a hard time staying. Sometimes, I get stuck in the hovering. Night Bugs My oars thick and stubborn, never agreeing. They can’t see the moon light like a ribbed silk cloth sewn to the lake. My oars can only feel the damp and the splitting. The bats are the same, clumsy and forgetting. Nipping only for night bugs. Their wings, tissue stretched over bone still carry them. There is no quiet in their hunt. All while silver bodies leap from home. They drink the air, it does nothing for them. I am no better, when all I can do is judge the way the lake keeps my boat in between. Enough I sit in the spot like I do every night I am up here; in the rumble under the stitching of this space. This tiny world is blistered around me, the static from outside like blips of morse code knocking on thick skin. My chair is made of logs, greying moss webbed over the spaces in between. The swell of now, I will wear it as muscle. It will be enough for a while, until my body again turns to need. Behind me, in the woods, there is darkness in the snapping, a question, a blank. Where my face glows, the moths try to eat the sparks from the fire before they get sucked into stars. A chase for the stuffings in the thick smoke that washes them down. A kind of packing where nothing dies for now. The Work I Wheelbarrow over twigs for the snapping and over the roots that, like moss holds onto my bare feet, wrap around the stones of my trail. I fight with gentle, my fingers cluttered over the rusting makes one big body that bellows through. Here, I can see all the stars. I bury them in sky so deep I could never belong to them. I was meant to come back with a sturdy warm. Instead I collect stiff bark and the longest needled pine I can find. Because I prefer things that crackle over flame, things that can’t keep me but instead scream all that is wrong with me. Somehow I stay here. ![]() Bio: Sarah is a twenty-one-year-old student studying English and Creative writing at Concordia University in Montreal. She is a never-before-published poet. Most of her work takes its inspiration from nature, whether it be her cottage in Quebec or her grandparent’s home in Grand Barachois, New Brunswick. She has found art and a connection with nature to be her primary healers. When there is a fusion of the two that is when she feels most whole. Comments are closed.
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