I want to talk about
how I left you
in a plastic bag
in a trash can
in a hospital
when I went into the world
but you’re not supposed to say
I’m sorry in the poem
where you try to say
what it is you love.
You rested
on my rib cage
mirroring my breathing
and liked the cold
first thing in the morning.
Nothing felt better
than the first time
you tasted air
above a lake
and lit up as if the world
was what you were waiting for,
as if you belonged
somewhere in it.
I remember
when you started growing
slowly like a vine,
changing the topography I was
into something that took years to map,
how I raked you into dunes
and held my breath
to keep from scattering you
across the landscape.
I remember the weight,
how it bent space and time,
how it made me realize
I wasn’t going to make it
if I stayed inside the boat of you
and how I chose to swim through stars
cold enough to kill.
I want to say it’s easier,
having breathed you out
but I’m busy
with the breath
barely guarded
by my bones.
Haley Bossé (They/them)
Haley Bossé is a queer non-binary poet and educator who emerged slowly from the dripping lichen of the Pacific Northwest. They can be found collecting plastic on the beach, wading shin-deep through mud and liquid sand, or consulting with the fungal goddexes.