Three Poems By Caitlin Munn

By Caitlin Munn

A poem during the drought (august 22)

Parchment rolled up tight with tight gold loops

Love celebrated by neighbourhoods

You once knew

The grey water tastes off. Paper discarded in the river

Of salt water 

Behind me

The next station is on higher ground. I know the vantage point is 

Worth the hike but the satin of my heels are sodden,

sodemised.

My body breaking with every step away from you 

Towards the sunrise 

A happily ever after in reverse 

Leaving behind fumbled friends, mean words I have given more meaning than 

Is necessary. 

I write the next page, but without the ghostwriter to hold my hand,

To guide the pen through pain and botched spelling the plot is light and airy

There is too much space for me, I take up too much room.

I crave the haunting because it is all I know.

I feel safe in danger.

I feel safe in the unknown.

I feel safe when I make myself as small as I possibly can

To fit my clothes

To fit your mould 

To fit the validation I want 

That you will never give

This is what you did.

And now this is all I can feel.

Just A Game 

Holding your hand, I feel you squeeze it tighter, like you are scared I might let go. 

The discharge papers have already been signed. No keys or plastic or heart left to squander.

I check the king, parched from defensive decisions. The playing board is painted red. 

I count your cards.

Flushed, the pawns gather round to watch. They swear allegiance to me.

I am victorious. 

But we have lost? - the air between us feels thick with subdued sin. 

Checkmate. 

The word hurts like the bruise of a thousand hoofs. 

No horse unmaimed for me to make my escape on. I am already gone. 

She is gone. The child, so full of hope and excitement and greetings and gentile eye contact. 

She traded her innocence for comparisons made in fairground mirrors, sacrifices made in lieu of self-preservation and suicide pacts where only one party’s signature is legible.

You’ve let go of my hand.

I didn’t notice it at first but now I feel weak as my wide eyes search for a

sorry or a simple goodbye. My pack is strong; she-wolves defending their own.  

I am a small frame trembling, lungs that crave dirty air, dirty words that even winter could not freeze out. 

This is so unfair. 

The council falls and we part ways. 

I make my way into the sea of others, searching for my lost kin. 

I am skinning myself with no intention of slaughter. 

So, I send myself home.

To safety. To a bunker that is safe and secure and straight forward. 

Prescribed plastic dries my cheeks and thaws my head. 

The game is lost and so are the people we used to be.

quiet conversations (the coffee train)

shhhhh, we are white with whispering -

a trillion words spilt like hot latte

on a mahogany worktop – pistachio and 

sugar spin a tale of half-truths and exaggerations

that hold such folklore as to 

bind a man to his cross.

throwing our heads back and inhaling

the warmth of the whispers between sisters, 

friendships strengthened by coffee 

scented crime. talking as one.

speaking our own made-up language that only those we let in

can understand.

This is what it means to have true companionship.

our coven is our comfort. a place of wishful thinking and 

strategizing the lives we may lead, whether together or 

apart. this corner of collective chaos holds 

our dreams, our dilemmas and the thought of goodbye turns the cake

stale, the coffee cold – our blacked-out bodies 

beckoning to the crows that gather outside.

This is the last day

like this.

sometimes for hours, sometimes a passing hello 

whilst on our way to fulfil some mundane magic, 

these quiet conversations so full

and yet empty cups sit abandoned 

as the cobwebs grow over those places

that we used to know.