by Caroline Smith
When I go staccato and to the high notes, knots
Of my body
When I put the black slip
Finally feel the rage for the ripping of my sapphire
Selenite, silken
Ask you for more, more
Sing you to a Venus
Sing you to a, we shouldn’t have
We couldn’t have, but we did
And you’re in me, you’re on me
I lengthen for you, still and still
I sing for you, still and still
Your wrist mends as mine breaks, deeper deeper
Feel me, feel me, love, love — my honey — what else could it be?
What is this longing churning in and of me?
What art am I in?
How could you ever have, loved, me when you’ve never seen me in my art-making? Fiber-tending? Warp-bending?
I’m a Willow now, and so very free. It awakens all of me unlike ever, unlike ever.
Each plant and I, my lover kin, unfurls more of me. Stirs me alive. Reminds me of how fickle, how sweet. How –
Honeysuckle and grand.
Caroline Smith writes on + of unceded Coast Salish territory, more specifically on a small Island surrounded by the Salish Sea. As a weaver, poet, plant tender, caregiver, movement guide, and Shepherd-to-be, Caroline works to create & sustain beauty + freedom in all things, especially in the woven communities she exists within and of. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Yes, Poetry, Messy Magazine, Occulum Journal, Pussy Lit Magazine, and elsewhere.
Emerge Literary Journal 