This is the Path that Leads to Hell
We wrap ourselves in a death spiral.
The water cycle is off track, depths
of God’s wrath part clouds, cough
chariot dust down his mountains.
I see into you. We can’t unscrew
ourselves after all these afternoons
we twist vines, spin satellites around
planets around lost tea cups. My eyes
brim on your horizon. As wise, I know
I’m dying here in sin. You are the bones
I’m holding in with this fabric of my skin.
Found on the Ship Wall
My dear, let’s just let death’s gravity
magnetize us toward the ocean floor
in the peace of painless sleep.
Let it bury us under overlapping glass waves—
soon our tortured days will be done.
But I wonder if our corpses will be recovered.
Stones covered in daisies will we ever lay under?
or ever have our names engraved on our graves. . .
And as we slide deep into the dark ocean,
remember when you sucked honeysuckles
off Mrs. Fink’s green gate in the pale-lit alley
all those summer evenings with your bike
and kid brother in tow—
headed home to your Mother’s dinner table.
Head home to your Mother now, just let go.
Two lifetimes ago, Catherine Zickgraf performed her poetry in Madrid. Now her main jobs are to write and hang out with her family. Her work has appeared in Pank, Deep Water Literary Journal, and The Grief Diaries. Her chapbook, Soul Full of Eye, is published through Kelsay Books.
