BY AUDREY GIDMAN
pillow talk
a crest of areola just above a hemline. plum cotton. window cracked open. lace curtains. my lover painting on the floor. paper cranes. silk thread. gold chain on her ankle. a bowl of dried roses. collarbones.
whiskey. a storm. a storm & a boat. when they leave. when they come back. striated granite. a ribcage.
gravestones. wrists. sparrows on a telephone wire. 4 o’clock in the morning. snow.
blood. chrysanthemums. heartbeats. snow.
birch trees. bare feet. their eyelashes. home. their eyelashes. home. a river.
stubbed toes. dry mouth. childhood.
a bowl of water on the ground. a bowl of water catching grief. a bowl catching grief like rainwater. bowl of water catching. catching water. catching grief. catching grief in a bowl. catching grief in a bowl like rainwater water. catching grief. hands full of water. catching it and then letting go.
bluebirds. a bluebird in a maple. a cardinal. birthing. then letting go.
loons on a lake at sunrise. accordions cutting loose over water. cutting loose through mountains. banjos plucking by a campfire. a long hug after such a long time. then letting go.
I turned myself into myself & was
—a lighthouse
—a locket
—a sinking ship
—water
—crows drifting by on their backs
—starting fires in the dark
—braiding dandelions into chains & unbraiding them
—a corridor
—a condor
—a window
—a field
—something else
note: title borrowed from a line in Nikki Giovanni’s “Ego Tripping (there may be a reason).”
Audrey Gidman is a queer poet living in Maine. She serves as chapbooks editor for Newfound and assistant poetry editor for Gigantic Sequins. Her chapbook, body psalms, winner of the Elyse Wolf Prize, is forthcoming from Slate Roof Press.