by Meg Reynolds

It's #tbt! Enjoy this great one from SWWIM Every Day's archives!

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Nepal Paper, Methyl Cellulose, Hair, Fabric, Glass. Kiki Smith, 1999 


As usual, I have lost you. You’ve left me  
walking a crooked mile. If I stand this 
morning, I’ll spill to the floor.  

Who else looks at you? Who combs your snarls  
and dodges your teeth? Who listens to your pleas 
for milky affection? Who strokes  
your brown and leathered head?  

You have my eyes, that daunted look.  
The red-membrane cape wasn’t meant for this.  
I stitched it for the yard, to stitch you  
to the yard and lullabies and felted goodnight stories.  
O little wolf, did you  

have to follow the moon 
like a ball bouncing out the door?  
Wasn’t our house, choked with ivy  
and old time, enough for you?  

When I lie on my back at night,  
my back is your bare foot, 
thick-pricked with thorns. 
I can’t sleep under your bloody coat, 
the red, red loss of you.  

How long before you stop unspooling 
between tree trunks and make a home with me?  
How long before you lacquer me in happiness, 
a film of laughter thin on the hardwood?  

Come home. I long  
to smooth your bent dress. 
Isn’t my wanting reason enough?  
I have enough of me. You 
are the thing worth having, worth 
all the bitemarks, the unknowable cost.  
I’ve left you a brick of chocolate  
by the door. Come kiss me goodnight 
with that mess on your face. 

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Meg Reynolds is a poet, artist, and teacher from New England. Her work has appeared in The Missing Slate, Mid-American Review, Fugue, The Offing, and Inverted Syntax amongst others. Her first collection of poetry comics, A Comic Year, was published in October 2021 from Finishing Line Press. Her second collection, Does the Earth, is forthcoming in the spring of 2023 from Harpoon Review Books. She lives in Burlington, VT with her family.

by Meg Reynolds

  Nepal Paper, Methyl Cellulose, Hair, Fabric, Glass. Kiki Smith, 1999

As usual, I have lost you. You’ve left me 

walking a crooked mile. If I stand

this morning, I’ll spill to the floor. 

Who else looks at you? Who combs your snarls

and dodges your teeth? Who listens to your pleas

for milky affection? Who strokes 

your brown and leathered head?

You have my eyes, that daunted look. 

The red-membrane cape wasn’t meant for this. 

I stitched it for the yard, to stitch you 

to the yard and lullabies and felted goodnight stories. 

O little wolf, did you 

have to follow the moon

like a ball bouncing out the door? 

Wasn’t our house, choked with ivy 

and old time, enough for you? 

When I lie on my back at night, 

my back is your bare foot,

thick-pricked with thorns. I can’t sleep under your bloody coat,

the red, red loss of you.

How long before you stop unspooling

between tree trunks and make a home with me? 

How long before you lacquer me in happiness,

a film of laughter thin on the hardwood?

Come home. I long 

to smooth your bent dress.

Isn’t my wanting reason enough?

I have enough of me. You

are the thing worth having, worth

all the bite marks, the unknowable cost. 

I’ve left you a brick of chocolate 

by the door. Come kiss me goodnight

with that mess on your face.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Meg Reynolds is a poet, artist, and teacher living in Burlington, VT. Her work has appeared in The Missing Slate, Mid-American Review, Fugue, and the anthology Monster Verse: Poems Human and Inhuman as well as The Book of Donuts. She is the co-director of writinginsideVT, a program offers that writing instruction at the Chittenden Regional Correctional Facility.