THREE POEMS by MARIANNE AGNES
packing
three pairs of socks, two shirts, one sweatshirt, my boots, my heels, that shirt my ex gave me, the book I swear I'll sit down to read this time, a tiny vial carrying the premonition I had last week (remind me to tell you about it later), jewelry that doesn't suit me anymore,
a 18x24 sized windowpane of glass to see you through, my knitting, all three of my phones and two of my laptops and their respective chargers, the collection of unwashed dishes in my room, my pills (8 bottles and counting), a lamp to light under the sheets in bed while we play chess even though we are both so bad at it, my hairbrush, a nice outfit in case we go out, sweatpants in case we stay in all weekend, my tretinoin cream, coconut lotion, facial mist, lipstick, mascara, eyeliner,
my bottle of witch hazel, a bag of earrings, two hairclips, wait one more pair of socks just in case,
water bottle, spare purses to have options to go with my outfit, a sword and a pair of wings at my heels, a bow, five arrows, a mirror in the shape of the reservoir from my hometown, that other book I'm probably not going to read either, the dirt we sprinkled on granddaddy's casket, kept in a small box, my photograph of grandmomma so he isn't lonely, your crockpot I keep forgetting to bring back to you, toothbrush, toothpaste, razors,
fingernail clippers, a dagger strapped underneath my breasts; even though i trust you i will always keep it there in case, even when we fuck, even when someday we make love, even when i'm in the shower, holding it in one hand through the curtains, while i wash myself with the other. a watch. a suitcase. my cat. his medicine. the deer jawbone sitting on my windowsill. a smaller mirror, regular-sized, for makeup. a question i meant to ask when i see you that I already forget about by the time I'm on my way. a runny nose. cold hands (as always). a hankie. chapstick.
I told you the way to my heart was through my back
you welcomed me, lips to my cheek
even as I turn away from your hot breath
you talk and I stare at the limping dog
my scuttled boat in the distance
seafoam caps on the shoreline
crouched under the bloom of your ocean infatuation,
It drips onto me like dish slop and dead skin,
folded by the dredge of the shower drain
and I’m silent,
not struck by Gabriel
or the light of saint Catherine, no
I turn my face from you
I’ll shear you from my life like wool
from all warmth itself I have to offer
and you’ll slouch west, to the vineyards
childbirth in O’Hare
groveling, wine-stained chalice girl watching the willows fold their roots together. riverbank-keepers, currents catching, eye-glints of strangers, reflections of herself that pull her in and under its tow. swallowing water is just as I imagined and flying is nothing like I imagined and this climate-controlled tube makes my ears pound and my fingers ache like they’ve been scratched up by a dozen sewing needles, and I tried it without a plane, my shoulders are too broad and my legs too thick to gain upward momentum, I leap and anvil-heart of mine plummets me into these dry hills, crushing beneath my knees the rarest of flowers that only ripen in autumn, god what a waste.
flattening the grass, body imprint wrought from ice meals and tea and pleasure in the curdling self-piteous pleasure in hunger, knowing how far less it hurts than what’s been borne before, staring at scuffed up boots when friend leaves the room, hiding my streaming irises always, every moment I can get a chance to rain on her carpet floors I will and still nothing grows in the sheepskin. I whittle myself into a sapling again and pretend not to stare at the sheen of your auburn curls, wishing the winds coming off the rockies would snap this plane wing and send me, relieved, into their valleys.
not so lucky. we touch down in O’Hare, the intercoms our wedding song, I run through aisles to my lover waiting for me at terminal 3, concourse K4 and she is clad in velvet, midnight blue against the stark white stone floors, delta airline employees ushering us first down the gateway to consummate our final rite in the baggage loading bay. she kisses me on the freckles of my clavicles because I wont let her lift my shirt. she is naked, pearlescent-skinned, lithe, and I keep my clothes on. she cries because I don’t kiss her in kind. we don’t have children.
Marianne Agnes is a reformed pastor's daughter originally from Tennessee, now based in Philadelphia. She is the recipient of the 2022 Austin Clarke Prize for Fiction and has been featured in The Ex-Puritan, Basilinda Journal, Bitezine, and Auspices Press. She loves to walk in the woods and rock in her rocking chair. She is on instagram @permissivefootpath and you can find more of her work at patreon.com/mariannerart.