Saturday morning: sleep still tip-toe-tapping
evasive, snug in the bags under our eyes
and you ask what I tell my family about you.
We have an adversarial relationship,
and you smile, content with this,
a story of villains and scoundrels
tucked into the softness of something
that’s been missing. Something we’ve
denied. How lovingly you wrap
your hands around my neck, careful
not to leave a bruise. How the world shifts
when you stop fighting the truth that you
should be fighting—like a gun learning it
was always meant to go off. And then rest in a
drawer. Velvet lined. I think of you as a railroad
stop. Or a dark alley. Not quite dangerous
but certainly not home. If I am tired enough
of fighting, I will lay my head on you,
but I am not staying here. Perhaps
what I like best about being near you
is that weakness is a sign of weakness,
and if I am lying face down, so are you—
there are no winners here. Neither of us
has a right to lay claim to the bite marks
on our skin; they are not names, just x’s
on maps marking where we’ve been.
by Bri Onishea
Bri Onishea is a multipotentialite who most prides herself on her childlike curiosity. This sense of whimsy often appears in her poems, which she has performed throughout Long Island and parts of New York City since 2014. She received a degree in English with a concentration in creative writing from SUNY Geneseo, and then went on to pursue a master’s degree in social work from Stonybrook University. She spends her free time staring lovingly at her collection of books, and enjoys cemeteries far more than any reasonable person should.
Appears In
Cagibi Issue 4
