I Am Trying to Locate the Moment
DANIELLE GARLAND

I am trying

to locate

the moment

the crumbling began

or    maybe    the moment

the crumbling accelerated   maybe
to imagine a re-do maybe

to know repair  
was impossible

The tiny cabin vultures

around me

the cabin

where we went
a month after my rape

went to escape                      

the contagion of pain 

The anniversary cabin
with the green refrigerator
and the too fluffy bed          
where
in the afternoon light                      
we tried
to find safety again                  
you inside me

us

pressed against

the still-wet wound

How I ached

for you     
to make me whole
again    
Make myself      
glisten                 
open       
and eager   

I did not ask
my body
to yearn for more 
lube

for my tears 
to shatter  
onto your chest
My pants sliding      
back on
The pink sky  

setting
while I asked
to lay
beside you
I wanted

to lay beside you

Now how can I
walk backwards      
when the memory
loops thick

with dust and tinnitus
Did  I    

lay beside you?
Did we
try
the right way           
or enough ways?
Were we

resilient enough?                        
I think    
it would have soothed   

your wound                
for my flesh        
to relax    
around yours

me
holding my breath    
til sundown
Regret circling

my every choice
that led to our climax here                
Your pacing

your red voice
roaring dull

Finding salvation     maybe

in pushing past

Danielle Garland (she/her) is a writer, science communicator, and feeding therapist from southern Appalachia who spends time thinking about grief, the intimacy of movement, and the fragility of narrative. Her work has been previously published or is upcoming in Ninth Letter, Empty House Press, Susurrus Magazine, and others. Find her on Instagram @_daniellegarland