with the grace of a woman

[backbonedaughter]

Antietam was the bloodiest battle of the Civil War. Brother against brother, father against son Sudden enemies cleaved from common Blood that ran in rivers that day Damned by blue, damned by grey. That night, I watched you sleep and I felt the tides shift, split Artery from eddy. Two currents. They say it took over four days to bury them all. Godless men, lawful men, sinners and saints Men driven by property, bigotry, By love of land and love of country. One rooted in history and habits, The other roiled by storm. Your head, heavy, in my lap. Sunk deep, sinking deeper. Quicksand. McClellan let his men do the work drunk. Bodies bloated, mottled, boiled white Buried by comrades bellyful with oblivion Unknowingly mourned by mothers and lovers far flung. I obey the first laws of rapids, Keep my feet up and breathe out The instinct to struggle. There is no retreat for love. Swept. Truths: All rivers run into the sea. Somewhere still a band bleats "Dixie." (Yet the sea is not full; Unto the place from where the rivers come; There they return again). Look away, look away To from where this river came.

Look Away, by R.M.

[backbonedaughter]

Tell me about March. Three months speeding toward us just as the last six slid beneath our feet. I can see it on the horizon but your eyes are buried in your shadows. Surely, a habit born of caution and conditioning: Sunlight might burn a window straight to your soul. Spring is a storm season in the district and you began as a wildfire. Go on – draw the conclusion. Tell me what I've known since snow and pine. Welcome to the eye. I am at home here And you cannot stand still fast enough.

green sky by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

wedged between my ribs floats a delta. each august it erupts, lush with possibilities that have steeped in warm soil all summer.  this year wild hope choked my lungs into the fall – and i wonder,  if it might finally defeat a february frost.

wild hope by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

all the right things escape, unbidden fluttering into the chasm  between you and me. only  in the morning do they catch the light and throw back terror.

refractory tendencies by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

later, they would claim it  was the beginning of the worst wildfire california had seen in years. one that ripped through houses and coated the earth in ash. the news reports said it had been a woman, alone, who kindled the fire to stay warm. how could she not have known, we asked, forgetting we were once cold  and lonely  too.

your hand trailing sparks across my thigh by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

tonight i slow-danced with myself in the kitchen feet swirling  through crumbs of grout: a metaphor, certainly, but one for later. for now, van morrison rasps on stereo and i spin myself again.

[backbonedaughter]

The ceiling fan spins dust into the air as mariachi music plays outside. Someone Has strung up fireflies to illuminate another year. Inside, a cat sleeps soundly on the sofa, the unknowing witness Of cautious hope.

vortex rising by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

Before it happens, you will taste it. The first humid night of summer never bodes well. Air hanging heavy and low, your tongue will taste the salt - a precursor of what's to come - as you form the first syllable of one of the worst sentences in the world. You aren't prepared for this. Your skin is unprotected gooseflesh, as delicately double-edged as the twelve roses in your kitchen sink. For future reference, twenty three layers of chainmail can erode within eight months; already, you have peeled your heart apart - slivered, sectioned, carved. So own each open artery. This is the punishment for never finding the courage to break skin. This is what she wanted all along. This is how it ends. Reclaim the high ground. No retreats. Gather the reinforcements. Leave none spared. Stake your core. This time, wrap it in strands of fiberglass.

cradle your bayonet close by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

Months of lifetimes Emerging from darkened caverns, Arising from the bowels of a city to breathe In cracked sidewalks and shadows. The ebb and ebb of your  Passanger side door That sick slick click of competition From 9 to 5. Home is where footsteps should ring out, Unchastened, Love in your arms

skeleton house by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

my presence is an act of determination alone.

a stubborn woman by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

i am a stilettoed poet. bow to my grace.

bond woman by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

i am curled in, cracked salt lips, rumbling stomach, slow hands, full heart.

moment by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

I've never seen a shooting star but I know what they feel like, exploding in my chest cavity. White heat singeing the tips of my ribs, A thousand wishes singing my heart into my throat. You feel like coming home.

Streak by R.M.

[backbonedaughter]

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to be a summer fling that washed up on the curb in the D.C. rain, fated to trickle down the sewers until the city forgot us like we forgot each other –– Maybe a “Hey, happy birthday” on Facebook. We were supposed to go back to our respective idyllic hilltops. Work too hard, drink too much, and fuck all our mistakes all over again. Someone forgot to tell me that strobe lights and three whiskey gingers can form long-term relationships. And even if they hadn’t, your mouth on mine at Farragut North would have sealed it. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You were a cool girl with cool hair and a voice that carried me straight into your kitchen, then your arms, then your bed. We never could tear ourselves apart after that. What happened? How many times did you cry on the cramped, university-issued couch in my living room? The confessional, we called it. How many secrets to you have to tell before there is no going back? Because I think we told them all. Somewhere in between civil rights and fireworks and the ER and your rooftop and our stairwell, I fell. It was a while before the 7-11, for the record. And I know it’s pointless, but it isn’t supposed to be like this. 7,806 miles between the computer screens we cradle. I try to be brave, but no part of a Macbook imitates the slide of your hips and no pixel count conveys your cheek against my hand. I live for the rise and fall of your chest my ear pressed to your heart my hand in yours. Chocolate chips and thumb wars. Supposed to. Thank god it didn’t happen like it was supposed to.

Supposing by R.M.

[backbonedaughter]

You write valves and ventricles where I write thumps and thuds. Does the language of what courses through our bodies say more than what springs from them into the world? I am concerned with the outward bounds: The rustle of your limbs against patterned sheets and the shadow of your face in the darkest moonlight. Your hands that try so hard to reach through layers of fiberglass and the smile that vaults highways. I don't give a damn about blood cells, baby. There is nothing in me that is not in you. From arteries to adjectives, you are just as whole. You should know by now that blood only gets us so far. So lend me your fingertips and listen for the echo as they slide into mine.

Outward Bounds by R.M.

[backbonedaughter]

the tornado touched down at 7:53pm. it moved east through knox county at fifty five miles per hour and ripped straight into my heart. i haven't been so fucked up since i met you. rubble, everywhere. spare ribs and extra lungs and a metatarsal strewn there. disconfigured. build me a new home in your body. shelter me under the eaves of your arms. i will take the smallest space so long as it is safe and warm and yours.

tornado season by r.m.

[backbonedaughter]

Tonight, My rib cage Is blooming Galaxies.

Galaxies by R.M.