Caitlin Dwyer
The Water
I was or am tied to you.
My swimmer, my new meat.
I was or will be
given; as gift
or as deadweight, who can tell.
The prophecy was brief
and inaccurate.
What we know: the way
you hold your head
like a bowl of fruit,
full of bruisable skin.
The way your hands dip
into the water like oars,
skim the surface -
crushing the smooth plane
to shatter, stray drops.
Every night the black slide of it
against my skin.
The nip of shark’s teeth
or the imaginary tug
of rip and fathom,
blue-black like a bruise.
I was blessed
when I dipped my body
in the river; I was drowned.
I tasted salt like a new hunger,
small suddenly in its need.
We rowed toward stars
we were told to follow.
The waves were as big as mountains.
She said it would be this way:
difficult, and worth the time
when we would try to consume each other,
when there would seem to be space
in our bodies for only one body.
Until we grew used
to living with both.
This I know:
for all you value thirst
you do not fear to slake it,
take its measure against your tongue.
Give me up, o dipper - I slip
willing into mouths, or did.
Caitlin Dwyer works as a freelance writer in a variety of genres. She hold a BA in English from Pomona College and an MA in Journalism from the University of Hong Kong. Her poetry has been published in the Beloit Poetry Journal, Beetroot Cider Press Review, Notre Dame Review, InDigest, Quiddity, Portland Review, Thin Air, and others. Her work has won several awards, and she has also received residency at the Port Townsend Writer’s Conference and given readings at the Wordstock Festival and other public events. More information can be found at www.caitlindwyer.com.
Return to July 2015 Edition
I was or am tied to you.
My swimmer, my new meat.
I was or will be
given; as gift
or as deadweight, who can tell.
The prophecy was brief
and inaccurate.
What we know: the way
you hold your head
like a bowl of fruit,
full of bruisable skin.
The way your hands dip
into the water like oars,
skim the surface -
crushing the smooth plane
to shatter, stray drops.
Every night the black slide of it
against my skin.
The nip of shark’s teeth
or the imaginary tug
of rip and fathom,
blue-black like a bruise.
I was blessed
when I dipped my body
in the river; I was drowned.
I tasted salt like a new hunger,
small suddenly in its need.
We rowed toward stars
we were told to follow.
The waves were as big as mountains.
She said it would be this way:
difficult, and worth the time
when we would try to consume each other,
when there would seem to be space
in our bodies for only one body.
Until we grew used
to living with both.
This I know:
for all you value thirst
you do not fear to slake it,
take its measure against your tongue.
Give me up, o dipper - I slip
willing into mouths, or did.
Caitlin Dwyer works as a freelance writer in a variety of genres. She hold a BA in English from Pomona College and an MA in Journalism from the University of Hong Kong. Her poetry has been published in the Beloit Poetry Journal, Beetroot Cider Press Review, Notre Dame Review, InDigest, Quiddity, Portland Review, Thin Air, and others. Her work has won several awards, and she has also received residency at the Port Townsend Writer’s Conference and given readings at the Wordstock Festival and other public events. More information can be found at www.caitlindwyer.com.
Return to July 2015 Edition