Late October
Trash bags filled
the kitchen floor,
I begged him
at the door
he said it
would be okay.
I thought it
was, my mother
blamed it on
the years of
tearing down
walls like onion
skins, a cry
for their loose
marriage held
by the wide
spreading arms
a newborn
child, a lack
of any
stability
in home and
in their health.
The lights grew
dim in the
place I used
to call home.
I fell through
the cracks in
linoleum
broken tiles,
my brother
pulled me out
from the hole
that was made.
An empty dresser
open, my
parents’ room
top drawer filled
with knotted
ties between
family
and work, I
took up space
in the back
of the cold
bottom drawer,
my brother
filled the space
between the
floor and me,
my mother
was filling
the open tiles.
My Sweet
My sweet, you are rotten teeth
eating away at sticky honey
thin walls barely holding the roof
of a decaying mouth holding you hostage,
trapped like the dried crust
around the necks of lonely
mustard bottles left in the fridge
far too long overdue for departure.
You are the relief in the snow
turned dark from the pavement
striped reflective coats shoveling
underneath burnt street lights
My love, you are also the sheets in my bed
paisley print greeted by the stream
of bright sunlight peering through the blinds
every morning, cat paws clawing into your
delicate skin yet you still smile back at them
you shine brighter than the string lights
climbing my chlorophyll tinted walls
glistening like oil on a heated pan
Your fingers burn every surface their
tender pads touch yet it is their most
gentle display of affection they put towards
another human being, my sweet.
Rise
When you promise her gold
a galaxy all her own
speaking with your tobacco tongue
and liquored lips
your eyes shining
like the bottles lying
across the house,
she begins to rise.
Her heart, bigger than
every gold filled cave
once plentiful, now tarnished
trickling rain diminishes her smile
her drenched body on the ground
she can’t lift herself up from the
weight of your grey
face, how you stare
back at her darkening eyes
dull like a knife a final
slice into her beating organ
an open backed wound
but I know that she will
rise from the dirt.
She will sing hymns towards the sky
hoping the rain will sing back
and at 4am she will wake me up
tell me let’s take a drive to
the beach, then watch the sun
rise and crash into waves
she will grow gardens
around where you would stand
fill them with daffodils and
sunflowers, nourish them with
your favorite whiskey
until the sun dries to soil
and she will continue to pour
the bottles into the ground
hoping you will drink it too.
And when those flowers die
and the mud around it bakes
she and the flowers will rise again.
Sage Fournier is an illustrator and writer living in Lowell, MA. They are currently in the process of earning their Bachelor of Fine Arts at Montserrat College of Art in Beverly, MA and plan to graduate in the spring of 2019. They are geared towards a concentration in illustration with a minor in creative writing, making work in both fields that reflects and shares their renditions of love through struggle and revival. They plan to continue illustration and writing after graduation to pursue a career in concept art and cinematic storytelling.