The Black Napkin Volume 1 Issue 5 - Page 8

4

Two poems by gabby catalano

water

“He laid his head in my palms

And I watched as he grew a garden of roses

Across a dying field.

He had the power to entrap me in flesh

Without it.

He had the power to fill it.

His shaky pulse hiding in all his aching limbs —

We depended on each other for breath,

For scars appearing when we don’t shower

And disappearing when we do.

We used to polish our faces before we saw each other,

But that was two years ago —

Before he went to bed and I braided my hair,

He told me that I kept it nice.

Sometimes we moved between

Unsent letters and shoulders and drinks,

And I wondered how a man can breathe

With tears in his eyes, how he can eat

With so much sweat over his head,

How I can eat in sight of so much ocean.

Down below his spine, the surf moved like

A body of morphine twisting up the coast.

He kept

laying in my palms even though his head was throbbing

And he said, “Death passes through you like wind,”

And I replied, “I think it passes over you like

Wind over water.”