Giselle den Breems

I didn’t think I knew enough
about the sky to notice the difference, but it was obvious.
Looking up, neck straining, turning in slow circles.
My footprints in the snow. Here I was thinking
we were all writing about the same stars.
From the inverted sky, the years ahead press down on me.
The snowflakes melt when they hit my cheeks.
The tears rise.

All at once, stumbling through a dark city.
The black dresses catch the moonlight;
the moonlight catches the red eyes.
The underground bars make me feel like
I’ve walked into my own heart.

If I press my hand hard enough into the wall,
that section will become clay and leave an imprint
and the neon red tulips will grow out horizontally
and clash with the amber light — and you won’t kiss me.
You know the way it works.

The deep blue when you say my name and I turn,
heart ajar. You’re leaning against the doorframe.
My own wrists in the light from the kitchen window.
The pearl necklace from the vintage shop,
spilling over the bathroom floor. At the centre
of the gash, I want back my prepubescent body.
I want to be clean and much smaller than this.

It’s not that I believe a body is something
that can be concerned with purity.
But if I lie on my back in the river long enough,
the water will seep through my skin
and wash the blood from my veins,
replacing it with snow melt.

Opening my eyes to a northern hemisphere sky,
the nine months that no one knew me for
start over.