Kate Johansing

What the Night Brings
 
The night brings a host of ugly,
Wounded things. My heart strings,
A refuge of birds with broken wings.
I am a canopy to sleep beneath
And wake with feathers in my teeth, like
When I think of the river I wished would flood;
I think of wasps, of sweat, of mud,
And when I picked those berries and kissed
My hands, and I wished it were blood.
I think I'd like to spit at the moon. I think I may have
Left too soon. I think of the lie that's 
Holding me fast; I brace myself early 
When I know it won't last. I think of that photograph 
I never took. I think I might write that horrible book
But fear the damage it could do,
Because what if what it said were true?
I think of love, and the shame I knew,
And you, of course, I think of you.

Kate Johansing has never been good at processing her own raw data, and has found that putting it through a program of metaphor, rhyme and illustration works best. She is previously unpublished.