Christie Towers is a poet living in the Boston area. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Poetry at the University of Massachusetts, Boston. Her work can be found in Narrative Magazine, the Ohio Edit, SummerStock and Reality Hands.
PYRITE
The first poems I ever wrote for you,
you requested. And now we’re texting
about the weather and the animals
we see — wild ones. The latch-key
cats of our neighboring streets. Thought
lucky, bell-less, hunting. I’m wondering
if I’m looking for a mother — or a lover
who can reprimand me? I’m thinking
about the thigh above your knee but
text you a picture of a tree instead.
The red sun behind it. Can you imagine
using a stone for a mirror? I ask, not
because I find your face implacable,
I ask because I’ve been told it’s
possible. Read it on the internet —
When kept in a pocket, pyrite
is a unique protector. Trickster gold,
but only if it stops you from looking.
The sun isn’t hungry for anything. Only feeds
and feeds us. The field that borders
our city is never empty, though it appears
this way sometimes.
SOLSTICE POEM
Woke up three times with a poem in my mouth—
lost it. How the churches visit us. Movable bodies,
wounded and flexible. I’ll wait in the car while
everyone else leaves. Worry about what to wear
and always wear the same thing. Last year, on this day:
fudgesicles and cigarettes and I was in love
with someone else. Her thighs heavy enough
to capsize a heart. Standing in water, not wanting me.
Some thighs are heavier than their body. A warning:
my tongue, in the morning, is downy, velvet.
The wet lawn where we wake is always wet.
