Six minutes into the six hour drive to visit her,
I notice the shadows of raindrops freckle
the backs of my hands.
Sickening to be a poet newly in love,
already imagining the heady syrup
of kissing her, her breath on my neck
like shadow-stones skipped across
my riverbed mind. Driving by a still-frozen
lake, I remember trying not to want this.
Frost gathers in the grass like ghosts.
I drive past time fed through a wood chipper,
time in me like too many birds
beating their wings, peaking their beaks
through my skin. Parked on the top floor
of the parking garage to her apartment building,
I see the light through
the afternoon clouds, like a goddess
saying, yes.
—
Cara Peterhansel (she/her) is a queer poet from Connecticut. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work explores the intersections of disability, injury, mental illness, queerness, and intimacy. Her work has previously appeared in Stone of Madness, Kissing Dynamite, and The Laurel Review. She can be found online at carapeterhansel.com and @CPeterhansel on Twitter.
Photography by: David Hellmann
