ISSUE 7

Trinity Catlin 

 

Explaining Yesterday

 

It was the broken clock, ticking with its hands stuck, sticking

to the hour it was struck down. It was cotton-mouth, and mud.

It was the kids finding the dead bird in the sand. It was being

the dead bird. It was being found and the sound of my mother

stomping down the hall, while the boy grabs his rotten shirt

and runs out the backdoor. It was the rattled door. The brute arm

of wind shaking the dusted car—the godlight cutting through

it all—slicing through the red rocks, revealing older layers of skin.

It was call me when you land. It was the bug-bitten itch-back in

the shower. It was sting. It was sitting on either side of the wound.

It was the red river within it. It was watching the deer over the fence,

which was the stag I almost killed for my father, who was a man

dragging the stag off the highway with a knife in his belt. It was

the belt that was a hand. It was the hand on the piano keys. It was

a dissonant song. It was the croak coaxing the sun to sleep. It was

catching frogs by the Missouri River, then letting them go, then

catching them again. It was being the frog in a plastic bottle, eating

my way out, lining my gut with it. It was the texture of your tongue,

on my tongue. It was eating ash. It was salivating at the char of it.

It was the attic on fire. It was feeling you push through the door,

or the doorway of your arms. It was entering as an apology. It was

knowing How High the Moon. It was the wildfire drawing the moon

as a tangerine. It was your mirror. It was trumpet lessons. It was brass

against lips against braces against my teeth during my best song.

 

I’m trying to talk to you through the blood spilling out of my mouth.

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