The Mediterranean orange fruit bowl I’d hear your ring kiss
has hovered over our dinners since you died, even though it doesn’t hold
enough orzo pasta or clam chowder to feed the family.
I’ve always imagined babies this sharp, curled up around organs, perfectly
round, save a bladder. I couldn’t have kept you because I have a history
of good fingernails, so you’d be able to scratch me from the inside out.
I picture the glinting, gold necklace circling
my mother’s neck or the way she cradled her arms
for months after she lost it in the ocean when I was twelve.
The white-feathered halo settled into my sister’s hair like a nest,
perched as if she were born to molt until she was punished
in Sunday school for saying she didn’t believe angels existed.
Toenail clippings used to line our nightstand; after you left
I’d chew on them as if they were a collection of voodoo dolls.
I was grinding bones. You could be hurt by the smallest part of me.
The handle of the mug you threw for me was still
wrapped in my palm as the yonic body shattered
on our hardwood floor and covered it with coffee.
An antique oscillating fan blade sliced off the tip of one of your fingers
when you were 6. Rusted, it rests like a shrine in my living room
I worship on off days. What could you have done with all ten of them?
If I didn’t say I saw a honeyed peach my grandmother may call
my poetry morbid again, and she’s been disappearing into the dent
of her bed so I’m afraid all of that darkness might kill her.
Caitlin Creson is a first year MFA candidate at Georgia State University and received her B.A. in English from Augusta University. She has been published by Sand Hills Literary Magazine and has presented poetry and theory all over the United States. Her work focuses on the depiction of processes; she likes to explore the image or story of something or someone becoming, turning, evaporating, and what all that entails.