Now I’m writing with real anguish—
we could hear the fur of the turnpike
you on red-dye woodchips
Zadie pulling toward that short growth of maple
I feared might be poisonous. Stem blood.
Earlier that day I slipped on the gravel drive
scraped ankle, shin, and knee. I hardly looked at the sky
so I can’t tell you about it. If love were not enough
it is easier to imagine something ending
than carrying on to its conclusion. Until death
I never want to resent you. No spiked heels
on the grated escape. To be misses. Stroke. Graze the scab.
The tightness of skin working to resolve itself.
Is this what it means?
In bed your body a sheer drop. We climb to the top of a small mountain.
Beckon. You say it’s nice, knowing most of the earth
is around this size
not entirely insurmountable.
Margaret Saigh is a writer, dancer, and educator. She is the author of the chapbook Crossed in the Darker Light of Terror (dancing girl press 2022), a graduate of the MFA program at the University of Pittsburgh, and the creator of circlet, a virtual poetry workshop. Her poems have been featured in Peach Mag, Plainsongs, and Figure 1, and are forthcoming in Calyx and The Champagne Room, among others.