The Dark Will Be Heard in the Daylight
Start from the belly of a well,
palms slick on wet rock
and a silence anyone can understand.
You hold the word daughter
on your tongue for three summers
before you can spit it out.
All told, there were only
seven days you spent aching.
God made the whole world in less time.
Three bodies built beneath your skin,
two too fragile to make their way out.
Their ghosts nestled in your rib cage.
Their twin gasps in your throat.
Someone told you it is easier
to mourn the dead than the living.
Of this you are not sure. It is years later
and still you remember the day she left.
You swear by some science or blessing
that she remains a part of you
as though you might resurrect her.
She whose bones were formed of your bones,
her tears pooled like water in your lungs.
Cara Neel is the youngest of three daughters and the tallest woman in her entire extended family. Nearly every job she has ever held involved talking to strangers about odd and uncomfortable topics. Born in Massachusetts, she has lived in Toronto, Montreal, New York City, and currently resides in San Francisco’s cloudy Sunset district. She writes poetry to try and reconcile her sense of home and to give voice to queer love and romance in both their simplest and more complex forms.