There Were Forests Here, Once
If memory is a creature to be captured, consider me
a pair of shears to cut the net. To share it with you,
this moment I’ve kept tucked between arm & wrist (needed all
of my ligaments & articulations to hold it in place)—
It only comes out when I put pen to paper, in fragments when I’m made
top-heavy with the weight. If it all spills forth at once,
I will surely drown. A kind of music starting in my bones—a sound so feral
even predators, their shining fangs & sharp claws, hover
in place before me suspended in honey-thick waves
of empty air. Is this the price we must pay for weaving
ourselves together? One tapestry thread begins to pull, then
the rest come loose. An image to be remade from scratch.
When we exit our mothers, a cord cut—a blood supply, a body,
a soul separate and not separate. Whole and not
whole. A series of meetings & partings.
The city remains a vast wilderness. Last notes of you
spill out through my fingers—a river I know & won’t ever know again.
Devin Stabley-Conde resides in Rochester, NY and holds a degree in English & creative writing from SUNY Geneseo. Her poetry has been featured in The Adirondack Review and Cartridge Lit. When she’s not at her day job, you’ll most likely find her exploring a local park, enjoying a good book, or curled up with her cat watching X-Files.