THE SECOND PERSON HAS DEPARTED
A gold sequin dress isn’t any use in a fire. I scribble down every cypher
I gathered about you. There is no kindness in letting you know
when the world unclasps, emptying its prayer palms of us, our preordained survival. Did you expect me to carry a gun? asks the body
of the lake. Like something broken loose, you’re there, stalking shore
in your thrifted aviator jacket. Triassic schools of sturgeon thrash
the silt, under the shade of absent reeds. Migratory fowls land in arrows
of feather, viscera. The rust that blood turns. Water becomes a blip
at the center. Water is an end. Kitten, you call, what colours survive
behind our cloudscape now? To no one in particular, to the me inside this
blue-ceilinged kitchen. I wish I could recollect you with gentler hands
than nostalgia. How it behaves as the aggressor, coercing renewal
from depleted sediment. It’s golden, I tell the you who left, and aflame
with newborn constellations. What you’d read there isn’t my guess.
Lauren Turner is a disabled poet and writer. Her debut collection, The Only Card in a Deck of Knives was published by Wolsak & Wynn in August 2020. She lives in Tiohtiá:ke/Montreal on the land of Kanien’kehá:ka Nation. Find her @sickpoettheory.