swan's bones

All writings by Caroline Myrick
(unless stated otherwise)

What sins I’ve sung

Last night I dreamed I found him on the beach, red sweater dripping, seaweed between his fingers. He was small, a foot or so, and I could tell him what I meant to.
In a van today that passed, a face looked out like his. I rolled my window down and waved with my eyes but the face was old like sand and he glimmered away, as always before.
Sometimes I still feel guilty for my harsh severing, my foul explanation. I fear what punishment I’ve conjured. What lies we’ve both told. Ages and ages ago.

Vitamin bead

When my father dragged me by my arms down the street. Nothing to shake. The dream has been done. I can feel my muscles twisted together like frightened roots. The cold is lonely like your lack of breath.

The Waiting

Everything is slow in the waiting. The dirty picture windows of my sad Congress deli trailed with crawling drops of melting snow.
I picture the skin of my mother. Harsh tan lines, soft and thin at some parts or supple like a young girl’s. I see my mother standing over me, bathing when I’m a child. Her soap runs down and I am engulfed by the warmth and herbal shampoo.
I see the sickness in my mother. What might be growing in the tissue of her motherly breasts.
I pull the dark mass out with the power of my lungs. I bless her cells, her bones.

Our kind is wild as the deathless vines you’ve cultivated. As endless as the shipwrecked glass of Superior.

But oh, how each day is such pain in the waiting.

"we kill roaches"

months ago, I opened a can of baked beans with a knife and the sauce sprayed the ceiling. the ceiling but not the walls or cabinets. I’ve left the sauce there. like the pine needles from our dead, neglected christmas tree sewn to the carpet and the blackened vomit stains inside the toilet bowl. 

remember when I found a cockroach behind the shower curtain and just drowned it against the grates of the drain? I couldn’t bare the corpse, hard and wet like a melting cough drop. 

what I choose to ignore is all mine— no secrets.                                           I keep the stains and scents like treasures. 

Those who love the most,
Do not talk of their love,
Francesca, Guinevere,
Deirdre, Iseult, Heloise,
In the fragrant gardens of heaven
Are silent, or speak if at all
Of fragile inconsequent things.

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.

Those Who Love by Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

Making the most out of inexpensive instruments.

Making the most out of inexpensive instruments.

december fluids

driving home the trees are bent like tired children, skeletal and white— all crystal, but strange and sad against the grey sky skin back drop.

tires slide in winter. each day I see the tragedy we’d make, wheels spinning in the thin air and the blackness of my brain. I wish it away like a tired child. I see the snow as quiet light.