A daily reading from One Poem Only—a quiet space for a single poem, read aloud. Today's poem is Hawk Feather by Connie Helena after Peyton Michelle Bryant:
Poetess, you made me cry
You gave me grief with your words
It is not the tequila I promise you
Because I drink all the time now
You made me remember
The odds are against me, against faith
I will never love anyone in this life again
Most likely this is so (he surely died)
Enough of the drama (eye roll)
The truth is I have been alone too long
To give it up for second best
Much less third best, three hundredth best
I will only open my hand for the one
Who has the power to surprise me
No matter how I try to be cynical, jaded
I cannot help but wonder
Who will call forth the wind in the trees
Make my body electric again
Inhabit a body I have no choice
To sleep peacefully beside, because I must
More from Connie Helena ↓
And now for the poem this was written after. “God, you can keep the boys” by Peyton Michelle Bryant -
God, you can keep the boys
who only write sad poetry
and listen to The Smiths on repeat.
God, my man is a warrior.
Lord knows I’ve got enough words
to feed the both of us
when times get tough.
My man writes poems with his hands.
My man is not afraid
to bloody his knuckles for me.
My man is a lion, Lord.
He is a stallion running down his own mission.
Our paths meet in the middle where we play
but neither one pulls the other off course.
He knows I belong to this wild world
doesn’t try to rope me in
or brand me with his name.
He knows I am not something to be owned.
Instead, he builds me a boat
with the biggest sail you’ve ever seen
and paints my name
on the side of her.
He builds me a set of wings
that carries me farther
than Icarus could ever go.
He builds me a writing cabin
and doesn’t get offended
when I’m taken by the desire
to be alone for days
in my cocoon of creation.
His hands are shields-
his palms big enough
to hold the entirety of the Milky Way
and each one has memorized
the blue/brown/green/red planet
of my body.
His fingertips brush the column of my throat
and he calls the rain down.
Gardens grow in the marrow of me
and not once
does he try to pluck them from the soil.
My man has arms and legs like the trunks
of the six-hundred-year-old Sycamore.
I want to nest in the branches of him.
I chart the map of his body
like a world-eager traveler-
trace the veins like blue-green rivers
along the shores of his forearms
lick the salt ocean sweat
gathered in his jugular notch
climb him like a wolf in heat
and still
I am hungry for the meat of him.
My man calls me Brilliant
calls me Dragon Fire
calls me Wolf Witch,
Poetess,
Great Moon of His Heart.
My man calls me Thank God.
He calls me At Last.
God, my man is an inferno.
I need him to be sturdy enough
to withstand the heat.
He is my burning crimson star;
I reach for the ten-million-degree Fahrenheit center of him
without flinching.
God, I know you’ve put us together before;
our lifetimes are an ancient song
my cells still remember.
I remember how we smelled
of campfire smoke and sweat-
our feet pounding a beat into the Earth.
I remember his face cast in firelight-
the two of us skin on skin,
a tangled pile of limbs
blanketed by furs.
I remember my nails
tracing red lines down the planes of him
my hair held like a bird
tender in his fist.
I remember his mouth
marking each rung of my spine,
his calloused hands
like rocky planets
orbiting the moon of me.
I remember I fell from my horse-
he took an arrow to the heart
and new bodies and lives
made up a river of time between us.
I am a queen lost to his kingdom, Lord.
Send the cavalry!
The lines have been blurred
between
dragon
woman
and tower
and I can no longer remember
which one I’m supposed to be.
God, I want you to give him back.
I want to lay him down
in the feather bed of my heart
once again.
I want to take his hand
catch a ride to some faraway red planet
where reincarnation is just myth-
where this life
is the only one that matters.
God, call him back to me
with bone and blood
with fire and howl-
stitch soul to body once more.
I will rearrange the cosmos myself
if need be.
And this time, when stars align
and we find each other again,
I will not fall from my horse.
No.
This time
we’ll ride side by side
all the way back home.
More from Peyton Michelle Bryant ↓
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Poetry reminds us what matters. Thank you for listening.
