Poetry

“Tricks of Gravity” by Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg.

What was surprising was the quiet.
The neighborhood in twilight, the blood
coming out some part of my face,
even the streetlights so familiar
as if I didn’t just crash into a row of cars.
Honeysuckle the only sound
through the open windows of my car.
Just like longing, I knew then,
a scent you want, you want
but lean into and it’s gone.

When they pulled me from the car,
said, say your name,
I said yours, wanting so much
I didn’t know I was hurt.

Hours later, on the pull-out sofa,
all the bandages in place,
we lay on our sides facing
into that honeysuckle everywhere.
A gravity.

An inevitability. I knew
I could never not turn this way,
and if I did, I could never not want more.
A crashing you hear the moment before impact.
So we pressed together once
in that ache that comes
right after an accident when no one knows yet
how much damage gravity does
to the world all the time.

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