Kittie Canutt

First Voice..

Please stop. No. push-forward. Please.
I am not trapped in a special breed of heartache. Nothing new here. You have felt it too (for various loves and lovers). Patience, patience and courage my love. Take my hand. We’ll mend our broken hearts together.

Spring Again

When we leave the party it is already starting to get light. The chickadees are arguing over territory and we call to them as we walk arm and arm towards my apartment. Inside, we kiss in the hallway, wary of roommates open doors. I am anxious about what we are about to do. I think about B. and if she is thinking of me. I wonder if she too is about to delve erotic into the arms of a well-chosen lover. I think about how she will like to hear this story tomorrow. Then I think about how I will make my lover breakfast in the morning. I wonder how she will take her eggs. I am glad to be touched, and seen. I am glad she likes how I kiss her. I get wet for warm fingers and the genuine sounds of girl mouths opening, whispering, finding deep eruptions, later, trading sweet affirmations. Call and answer. Perfect for the mating season. We fuck and kiss and spoon and sweat. We sleep. We sleep-in. We drink two cups of coffee, and walk to the park. She picks up pieces of bark and I open up an old milkweed pod. As we walk I tear apart the feathery pulp, carefully allowing each seed to parachute upwards in the wind. She holds her treasure in her right hand. We examine a tree. I want to put my arm around her, but I like how we are walking and chatting effortlessly, so I don't do anything to change it. There is some concern over the difference between grackles and starlings, but otherwise we fill in the words neatly where they are missing, enjoying new stepping stones. I imagine a black room where we are allowed to create a new landscape. Flat stones appear in front of our feet. They float in the black room. Rock by rock we wind our way through impulse. The weather is dark and warm and new. There are alders spraying dusty yellow pollen. There is water below our feet. My ears feel full and heavy, I can hear my body working; my jaw opening, my voice speaking, my blood cells bumping into capillaries. Her thumb rests on my arm, she marks me with yellow pollen, she seems nervous to do this, but why? The black birds sing. I shuffle closer to her, wanting her hand, maybe, to find my own.