He will send you a text by mistake addressed to his friend,
saying it’s all too much, he got carried away, and you did too.
This you already know. You stay silent. You erase.
And you go to his house, he plays piano
for you, and the kisses are awkward, but his hands
wander anyway. You don’t know why you came here.
You were swept away by that aurora at your feet, where
the lamppost glow hits the winter street, when it’s cold
and London smells like frosted takeaways and it’s been dark
since half past three. His eyes are coal before it burns, flecks
of black light that hide when he kisses your clove and nutmeg
lips. You don’t want to see the solstice. You don’t care about
the sun. That evening he turned his head to the east; you
could already feel his empty indent in your atmosphere—
the death of a dark star before its birth.
burns through a kiss
and your narrative carves
talismans from our bodies.
The skin between my breasts
dissolves with the dregs
of stories we share for the sake
of becoming us; ego
snaps my neck, each whiplash
syllable catches in my throat, until I blow
a joke into your cloud of smoke
and it tickles the cheek
of the secret you hunched
under half-lies, the you sheltered
in untold myth, releasing your gin-
flushed regret to the rain.
(First published in The Clockwise Cat, February 2016)
Kate Garrett is the editor of Three Drops from a Cauldron and
Picaroon Poetry. Her work is widely published, was nominated for
a Pushcart Prize, and her most recent pamphlet, The Density of
Salt (Indigo Dreams, 2016) was longlisted in the 2016 Saboteur
Awards. Her next pamphlet, You’ve never seen a doomsday like it,
will also be published by Indigo Dreams in 2017. She lives in
Sheffield, England with her husband, children, and a sleepy cat.