By Giorgia Sage
I write her a letter:
smile today
because birds have hatched in this sunlight
and they are beautiful in that they are alive
as are you on this day, in this sunlight
smile today.
this is what forgiveness means:
i cupped a sea urchin in my palms
tattooed its shape into my skin
what a terrible thing it is
with orange insides, something furious
i show you mud
on the curves of my calves
caked in the crevices of my joints
i am a god.
i made this.
Look.
Look:
there is a bird inside this house
beating against closed windows
it came in with the wind
it came in and never left.
it split its wishbone on the glass
i pulled it out of its chest
gave you the bigger half
I write her a letter:
love me more
worship me like you worship the small things
in the sunlight
gods pray too;
i pray to the sound your breath makes
in my mouth
otters are water’s shadow
twist it here; tie a knot
black nose and wide tail
what have i made?
maybe you are the otter and i am the sea
maybe you are the stream and i am the stone
see how quickly i sink.
beat me smooth; i will not cry
what have you made?
She writes me a letter:
you will hold other clay in your palms
but what if i don’t want to?
feel this wrath, a patient one
knead it like dough into marble;
throw it like clay on a wheel;
make something.
this kiln is cold
I write her a letter:
no.
i want to be all things weak in you
i want to be the dirt under your nails
scrub it out with coarse bristles
all down the drain, in good time
make something with our chapped lips
and the sound of your breath in my mouth
What have you wrought?
What good have you made?
i see only pain here
the only thing beautiful is your shape
embedded in the water,
a hole in the current
watch what i make.
i make myself a sea creature for you
anchored to a rock
my body a hand, clutching
the otter bobs its head, swims away
where are you going?
Can i follow?
i see it, a place i want to go
i search for it on floors
in the trenches of your eyes
i find nothing;
i find a loosened knot
otter and water reunited
i find nothing.
i make nothing.
i make myself.
I write her a letter:
don’t go.
I write her a letter:
there are parts of you i will never see
it kills me
I write her a letter:
i smiled today
because you left
and i am still here
and things are dying
and there is sunlight everywhere
and it is not beautiful.
Giorgia Sage is a San Franciscan writer who has been published in Sugar Mule, Belletrist Coterie, and the Ilanot Review, among other journals. She has been told her work is like drinking a coke with Frank O’Hara. She likes walking and often wishes she was a bat.
