Solve for Desire. Caitlin Bailey

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Solve for Desire - Caitlin Bailey

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is our sorrow tree.

      Here is our hollow.

      Here only the sweetest grass.

      O, your crown of rushes.

      Finally our good hour.

      Our gold all-encompassing.

      I will never, never leave you.

      Deer brother. Dear brother.

      LOST LETTER

      This is the first time I’ve written to you,

      and I know now why they called me little witch.

      My hands have done terrible things.

      I remember the first time, your hand cupped

      over the glass and over mine, O charging desire—

      the welcome rush of the wild heart, poppies

      blooming under my skin, a perfect red burst.

      And now he’s in the other room, and I can’t

      be long remembering you. You wore your anger

      like a bare coat until I plucked myself from your

      pocket. I knew nothing of loss.

      PIGEONS

      Once we walked into a field and watched pigeons

      black out the sky, thousands of wings whirring,

      and it was a wonder they stayed aloft.

      The most brilliant part of you exists to haunt me:

      a bomb in the womb or men in the rafters.

      Sometimes I can’t believe my heart,

      how it continues.

      How it isn’t black and withered,

      how the chambers remain clear,

      the beat plain and perfect.

      CHURCH, HIPBONE

      Ready tender mass. Glossy rope, we bare our teeth.

      Equal the church, the hipbone, the sliced ocean.

      That old yank in the throat, bedded for days. Perpetual tangle.

      Something bent, fashioned in fits, memory of your arm

      filling a sleeve. A blue whale’s heart is the size of a small car

      and I am finding it hard to imagine anyone who would not

      be moved to think of that vehicle. I want to drive fast

      into your mouth, leave nothing on the table. Ridge inside

      of me, hurt spot continually worried, thumb brushed

      against collarbone until it begins to crumble. Which parts

      belong to me? Just the blossoming, or the tongued flat skin?

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