Two Poems
Zoe Baber
Zoe Baber
findings from new york after a long night
boyish. boy-ish. thing come alive. the warmth
flaring in the pit of your stomach, it could be
desire, if you wanted. you are a woman, after all,
after all, you are a dove, you are a god, the music,
the tongue in cheek and on cheek, the love
hidden in the wall on a wednesday. so afraid
of becoming something that it already is. afraid
of tenderness: afraid of its flesh peeled back
like an orange, afraid of the bruises underneath
the silk dress. after all, you are the city at night
full of lovers pouring forth from their doorways,
you are the windows flung open as if the moon
was always the only answer. boy not-bird, regrettably. girl not
record-player not spinning too fast to breathe. and fear, fear,
fear, trembling in corners like a jazz band. tapping their fingers.
love incarnate working an office job. all of us doing something
to get by. we’re afraid of something and we’ve shoved it away:
our kindness and hope taking up space in the air vents. the storm
brewing in your hands, it could be tenderness, low and sweet.
this is a promise i am making to you. this is advice about that
monsoon crawling up your wrists.
it could be tenderness, a song, gentle rainfall, yes woman,
it could be everything, you could be everything.
on holiness and tuesdays
i. i cleaned all the dishes and counters
to commemorate your arrival. i made my heart a
neat little place for you to land. i made the bed in
the chambers of my chest, ignored the monsters
trembling beneath. i am trying to be kinder
and listen to the good things within me. this is all i
want you to understand. i grew a garden for you for
ten months and i cut the strawberries into stars. i
made myself tender. the summer softened me. i
tamed the wild beast in the backyard, that is to say i
put two hands on my chest and quieted the roaring.
you didn’t want me, when you came back from the
airport in that shiny yellow taxi. even now, i am not
enough for you. after everything.
ii. i tried not to dream about reaching for your hands. i
wandered graveyards instead and pretended the bodies
were not yours, or all of my past selves, or all of my
childhood friends, smiling as if they had a secret i had
long forgotten. around you i kept my mouth shut, too shut,
and you found other doors to wander into. my body
remained a labyrinth: unsolvable, growing over with
untouched ivy. i pushed her beneath the soil and she came
back hungry. i shoveled my life into her but it was not
enough. i could not give her you. i could not scrub away
the dirt she had tracked into my bedroom. even now, after
everything, i am still missing pieces, and they are still
shaped like people i will never get back.
iii. i do not speak to god, but if i did,
it would be on a tuesday afternoon
and i would wear my best dress.
i would gaze into the sunlight and he would say
i’m sorry, i’ve forgotten your name.
i’m sorry, but who are you?
and i would sit in silence until the stars
came out and poured onto my head.
and my grandmother’s ghost would sit
on my bed, an outline in the artificial light,
waiting for me to come inside and get some rest.
even now, after everything, i do not know the answer.
even now, if you ask, my chest will tighten.
iv. i hope that you never stopped
drawing people instead of houses. like our
faces alone could hold a world of light.
me, i was all red-brick and messy front lawn
and full of rooms. the windows thrust open.
the sunlight wild. there was a time when
i wanted to be filled with secrets and stories and long
hallways - never doubting, of course, that someone
would come wandering through with their torch,
wanting to know every inch of me. it was something in
the way we made our beds every night. like we would
die within them if we weren’t careful. like everyone and
everything could be our savior. the sheets tucked in
neat. the bread broken on the dinner table. the world,
folded enough times to take flight, like the paper crane
dangling from your ceiling. even now, after everything,
i hope you watch the walls and think of turning into sky.
v. i asked the tarot cards if i would be loved
and they said maybe - get back to us
in twenty or so years once you’ve changed your hair
and read a couple real pseudo-intellectual books and
learned how to be a living breathing thing on planet
earth. your heart is beating and it’s so strange. this was
still a part of the answer. your lungs are breathing but
they’re doing all this other shit too - singing and
laughing and carefully keeping flowers so that the first
person to make your breath stop will grow a garden
within you. love, as it turns out, is not a battlefield to
charge into. when i realized what i wanted i had to take
off the armor and put down the sword. love now is
things like blooming gardens and fingers on shoulder
blades and knowing exactly how you take your coffee.
even now, after everything, i had it wrong. this is the
journey: the learning of love, the willingness to learn
love, over and over again. even after everything.
to commemorate your arrival. i made my heart a
neat little place for you to land. i made the bed in
the chambers of my chest, ignored the monsters
trembling beneath. i am trying to be kinder
and listen to the good things within me. this is all i
want you to understand. i grew a garden for you for
ten months and i cut the strawberries into stars. i
made myself tender. the summer softened me. i
tamed the wild beast in the backyard, that is to say i
put two hands on my chest and quieted the roaring.
you didn’t want me, when you came back from the
airport in that shiny yellow taxi. even now, i am not
enough for you. after everything.
ii. i tried not to dream about reaching for your hands. i
wandered graveyards instead and pretended the bodies
were not yours, or all of my past selves, or all of my
childhood friends, smiling as if they had a secret i had
long forgotten. around you i kept my mouth shut, too shut,
and you found other doors to wander into. my body
remained a labyrinth: unsolvable, growing over with
untouched ivy. i pushed her beneath the soil and she came
back hungry. i shoveled my life into her but it was not
enough. i could not give her you. i could not scrub away
the dirt she had tracked into my bedroom. even now, after
everything, i am still missing pieces, and they are still
shaped like people i will never get back.
iii. i do not speak to god, but if i did,
it would be on a tuesday afternoon
and i would wear my best dress.
i would gaze into the sunlight and he would say
i’m sorry, i’ve forgotten your name.
i’m sorry, but who are you?
and i would sit in silence until the stars
came out and poured onto my head.
and my grandmother’s ghost would sit
on my bed, an outline in the artificial light,
waiting for me to come inside and get some rest.
even now, after everything, i do not know the answer.
even now, if you ask, my chest will tighten.
iv. i hope that you never stopped
drawing people instead of houses. like our
faces alone could hold a world of light.
me, i was all red-brick and messy front lawn
and full of rooms. the windows thrust open.
the sunlight wild. there was a time when
i wanted to be filled with secrets and stories and long
hallways - never doubting, of course, that someone
would come wandering through with their torch,
wanting to know every inch of me. it was something in
the way we made our beds every night. like we would
die within them if we weren’t careful. like everyone and
everything could be our savior. the sheets tucked in
neat. the bread broken on the dinner table. the world,
folded enough times to take flight, like the paper crane
dangling from your ceiling. even now, after everything,
i hope you watch the walls and think of turning into sky.
v. i asked the tarot cards if i would be loved
and they said maybe - get back to us
in twenty or so years once you’ve changed your hair
and read a couple real pseudo-intellectual books and
learned how to be a living breathing thing on planet
earth. your heart is beating and it’s so strange. this was
still a part of the answer. your lungs are breathing but
they’re doing all this other shit too - singing and
laughing and carefully keeping flowers so that the first
person to make your breath stop will grow a garden
within you. love, as it turns out, is not a battlefield to
charge into. when i realized what i wanted i had to take
off the armor and put down the sword. love now is
things like blooming gardens and fingers on shoulder
blades and knowing exactly how you take your coffee.
even now, after everything, i had it wrong. this is the
journey: the learning of love, the willingness to learn
love, over and over again. even after everything.
//
Zoe is seventeen years old and lives in Southern California. In writing, she hopes to express her take on life as a young queer woman.
Zoe is seventeen years old and lives in Southern California. In writing, she hopes to express her take on life as a young queer woman.