To: William Shakespeare / From: Christopher Marlowe
Thérèse Naccarato
Thérèse Naccarato
You do not combine Tully and Octavius
without a certain symbolism lurking underneath.
I say this with experience.
The paper weighs more than the mind
itself once it’s been exhausted. I throw mine
into flame and you pile yours next to your desk.
I suppose this is what it means to leave evidence.
They call this heresy. I call it divine providence, darling-- I’m
sure you’d be proud. And so we crash and burn and dance in
the ruins that the universe has left for us. You write and I drink and
it spills down my shirt yet we do it all again the next day.
They cannot place a noose around us if our lives are circular already.
You say, Our weary arms hung up for monuments. I look at my hands
wrapped around your shoulder.
This is what they call realism:
Change it to bruised, love. It sounds much better.
Lies slip easily out of my mouth but holy water burns it and I never meant for you to see.
I’m knelt down in a field and there are grass stains on my trousers. You’re
sitting in your castle.
We know the damage that we’ve caused.
Don’t cry, darling, it’s alright-
great reckonings pave way for even greater art.
without a certain symbolism lurking underneath.
I say this with experience.
The paper weighs more than the mind
itself once it’s been exhausted. I throw mine
into flame and you pile yours next to your desk.
I suppose this is what it means to leave evidence.
They call this heresy. I call it divine providence, darling-- I’m
sure you’d be proud. And so we crash and burn and dance in
the ruins that the universe has left for us. You write and I drink and
it spills down my shirt yet we do it all again the next day.
They cannot place a noose around us if our lives are circular already.
You say, Our weary arms hung up for monuments. I look at my hands
wrapped around your shoulder.
This is what they call realism:
Change it to bruised, love. It sounds much better.
Lies slip easily out of my mouth but holy water burns it and I never meant for you to see.
I’m knelt down in a field and there are grass stains on my trousers. You’re
sitting in your castle.
We know the damage that we’ve caused.
Don’t cry, darling, it’s alright-
great reckonings pave way for even greater art.
This is the second of three poems by Thérèse Naccarato that will be published in our journal. These poems are part of a series of poetry Naccarato is writing about different LGBT relationships throughout history, mythology, and classic literature.
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Thérèse Naccarato is a 21-year-old amateur historian, writer, and theatre kid. She resides in Ontario, Canada with her dog and two cats. She is set to have a poem published in Autumn 2021 but before this, has previously been unpublished.
Thérèse Naccarato is a 21-year-old amateur historian, writer, and theatre kid. She resides in Ontario, Canada with her dog and two cats. She is set to have a poem published in Autumn 2021 but before this, has previously been unpublished.