Is It Love or Mourning?
.
In the painting, they stand tall
against the trees, their limbs
just as long. Her black gown.
His top hat. Their arms entwined
like the ivy vines under their
feet. I can’t see their faces,
but some part of me is overcome
with inexplicable grief.
Grief doesn’t always spawn
from death. Sometimes,
often times, grief is
of your own making. You
remember the corners
of their mouth the last time
you cooked together. You
remember the blissful ignorance
of your last Christmas together,
lights shining so brightly, the air
thick with pine. When you thought
it could never end.
Anymore, I can’t even recall
the last time I kissed you.
I’d like to think I meant it.
I can’t remember the last thing
I said to you. But I remember
your head on the pillow,
the slope of your shoulders
in our shared bed
the morning I left.
.
13 Hours
“The way forward is sometimes the way back” – The Labyrinth
,
People talk about rivers’ mouths
as if they could kiss them and sexuality
is an estuary. But the hedgerow of a maze
is where the real danger lies. I can’t recall the first time
I let you claim me, but I’m sure
I was straddling you while the snow
fell outside your window like ash –
my hopes falling like snow – my tongue
in your mouth. The double consonants
of your name hurting my feelings with every
breath we breathed into each other.
Outside of your house hangs
a skateboard swing off a great oak,
and the cobblestones change and move.
I only look over my shoulder once
on my way out. My bra is tucked
into my coat pocket. My thoughts
are a deafening cacophony of places
I want to love you.
Your river’s mouth was fed by a mountain,
so I’ll take the little bits and pieces of you
I can get. It’s like building a never ending puzzle,
searching for your edges, your center. It’s
like wandering a labyrinth. I’ve met many weird,
wonderful, and scary creatures in you, but
any misstep could make me lose you
over the course of a moon phase.
I wanted you in a way I never wanted the others.
You and your roller skates, your tattooed
knuckles. You’re the reason I lose sleep,
and I’m the orb in your Goblin King’s hand,
I’m who you call when you lose yourself,
I’m your owl in the moonlight.
.
.
BIO: Layla Lenhardt is a queer poet based in Indianapolis. She is Editor in Chief of 1932 Quarterly. She has been most recently published in Rust + Moth, Sad Girls Club, Poetry Quarterly, and Pennsylvania Literary Journal. She is a 2021 Best of the Net nominee and a 6th place finalist in Poetry Super Highway’s 2021 Poetry Contest. Website: www.laylalenhardt.com.
