By Gabrielle Congrave


                                                                        inside this month of broken skin
                                                                        and bitten lips
                                                                        (while some shiver
                                                                        and i melt)
                                                                        you make me remember why the sky must grow dark,
                                                                        why my skin grows cold
                                                                        as one breath precedes another.
                                                                        i have learned the difference
                                                                        between sorrow
                                                                        and pure motion,
                                                                        between regret and the agony
                                                                        of wanting
                                                                        that snaps every blue flower
                                                                        and spits ice into the skies.
                                                                        there is no easy footing,
                                                                        no pleasant view.
                                                                        no moment
                                                                        where the heart
                                                                        softens, turning whores
                                                                        into honest women,
                                                                        and forgiving those silent aching sins.
                                                                        i remember a street lamp,
                                                                        a color
                                                                        that did not make sense,
                                                                        how each body found
                                                                        and claimed the other.
                                                                        i remember
                                                                        the taste of your teeth,
                                                                        a bloody sun sinking fast.
                                                                        and in the background
                                                                        quiet now)
                                                                        there is a heart
                                                                        repeating a secret
                                                                        over and over to itself.

wintertreeGabrielle Congrave is a writer, mother, yogini, feminist and former sex worker.  She writes and publishes the zine When the Crash Meets Something Solid.  She grew up in the northwoods but lived in Minneapolis and Vermont in her twenties.  She is a BFA creative writing major/gender studies minor at BSU, and working on her 200-hour yoga teacher training at Yoga North in Duluth.