Small Precious Creatures
I want to say to myself. Before it’s too late. Before you are too far
into the pines, before you
step on the pelvic bones
of small precious creatures
and can’t see his face
anymore. It will be enough;
it has to be.
You’ve forgotten twilight in all this blinding dawn.
You’ve forgotten that figs are
the true fruit of the underworld,
that pine needles sound of rivers as they shift.
That the soul can be bruised and buried, is two-faced
like the coin—like Charon’s payment. But he will
tell you to turn back.
Because it is enough—this
love. Even the gods concur.
Elegy for Something Not Yet Come
When I shed blood on those sheets of yours I stood and thought of all of the
things I couldn’t give you. Watched your hands move over the secrets of
me that even I will not look directly at.
I talk about petals and coffee grounds but
this is the raw of it: some parts of my flesh will
rebel against your love no matter how deeply I
drink it. Lives ago I read you in the entrails of
crows and mollusks, their bodies dark and fragrant.
I will grow you sweet dumplings and blue
hubbards. Snap peas and artichokes. On my knees
in the dirt, praying. Shedding blood and skin in
thin sheaves like the insides of eyelids.
I had only peonies to look forward to. I
spent all of those seasons dreaming of the way you
touched me and took what you touched, never
bringing you with me past the dawn.
Sarina Bosco is a chronic New Englander, myth hoarder, whiskey drinker, and hiker. When not writing she’s teaching. When not teaching she’s baking. Occasionally there are naps.