Poems by Natalye Childress

climbed up the tree of life, kicked out of paradise 

i.

late night in the woods, and i can’t evеn
look at you straight on. i’ll find you in 
another place, consolations plastered
on the leaves. i’ll gather up serenades 
and surrender to the sound — of 
swallowed words and infinite speaking. 
my mind skips the scenes, they’ll escape 
through a hole in the back of my head. 
make a knot, i’m stuck inside. sinking in, 
fingers falling in my sins. i’m skipping sleep 
because i’m fluent in dreams  — about  
mountains, pinnacles, and shrines. hold my 
hand, accept my confession: if i could, i’d 
be your little spoon, ‘cause my heart’s 
stuck that way, and tenderness is all i’ve got. 

ii. 

we’re all our own sun, but not me. i’m 
an ocean wallowing: i play pretend 
while you haunt me in reverse, and i’ll 
drown you out with this legitimate longing. 
spiraling steady, stomach tied, you can 
never erase me off your thighs. thick 
skull, dirty mouth. trying to see your 
bones, while you’re keeping your hands 
to yourself. clawing, coiled up, it breaks 
your skin. and now: a bite, a balled-up fist. 
and then: fear and harm, certain pain,  
everything disappearing, vanishing when it 
bleeds. i think i’ll regret this waiting forever,
for you to make it hurt. but i’ll never 
forget the way reverie leaves me spellbound.

semantic eventualities 

 “Я понять тебя хочу, 

Темный твой язык учу” 

— pushkin 

your mouth opens and darkness spills out, permeating everything, insomnia eclipsing our time. the past is outdated and the present is obsessed with the past. the nights i spend with you are sleepless, and from the edges of morning, in my delirium, i’m learning to read the space between your words. learning the difference between what’s appealing and what’s appalling. i show you my fingers, twice, thrice. and there, the pause, the unbroken gaze. and sometimes, defeat. seconds of silence pass. our game of hawk–dove intensifies. animals communicate in violence, because violence is survival, and it’s the only currency they have. we communicate about what we are trying to understand, about things we did not know. but we’re animals too, our inside jokes masquerading as hard-won truths. i’ve got google translate on speed dial with ad hoc translations of proverbs. to be barges swarming. to be afraid of wolves. to be a wagon full of noise. you promise to be careful, honest, but you can’t remember what for. 

the dog days of winter 

 after julien baker’s “heatwave’ 

i spent a sunday behind the wheel, driving circles around the reservoir, because when you no longer believe in god, you don’t have to go to church. drowning my day, i’m a few pints deep when night dawns, and an e minor star cluster appears on the horizon. death by heavenly shepherd, blood dripping, i find myself pleading. strengthen the weak hands, and make firm the feeble knees. i wonder what good prayer and supplication are. i wonder if loving you trivializes their deaths. you were playing god when you ended their lives, their deaths born in your hands, and oh what power you hold over me. can you bind the beauty of the pleiades? can you loosen orion’s belt? it’s february, hunger moon, snow moon. excess winter mortality, liminal space. i do everything to keep from spiraling, my back, a street to be walked on, falling prostrate so that you may walk on me. 

Natalye Childress (she/her) is a California-born, Berlin-based editor, writer, and translator. She has an MA in creative writing, and her first book, The Aftermath of Forever, was published by Microcosm Publishing.