“This could be the last time—”

By Olivia Gwyn

That’s what my dad said on the best night of the year,

so I guess I’ve always been waiting for the end 

Always people are leaving and happiness is ending

and enjoy it while it lasts is just 

grief wrapped up in a pretty bow

I’ve always believed this curse 

and it’s always proving me right

At least until you 

Not breaking the curse, but

you, staying, staying 

It’s a miracle to have someone who

is never bored with you, listening, looking at you, laughing with you

You rub my hand so gently with your split thumb 

I could cry

I was alone and then there was you

You’ve never left as the birds migrate and the crickets die out, the frogs grow quiet, the morning doves call through the trees

Death is a distant thought silhouetting you

pointing out the sunset,

our daughters feet in the grass

You can’t believe her 

And I can’t believe you, 

the way your eyes light up after all these years 

The crickets a soundtrack of time, leaving, forgotten 

 

Warm-blooded arms 

By Olivia Gwyn

Olivia,

don’t be afraid

I know your father sometimes

warned you what other men

would think about you

And it made you wonder,

worry what he thought of you

Don’t worry

Here’s the house where you

stepped on a yellow jackets’ nest 

and filled your mouth with water

cold from the hose

You walk down the steps

and bask in the jasmine scent,

the lizards warming their 

cold-blooded bodies 

Jump down from the porch,

trust your ankles to carry your weight

I promise, you no longer

bang your feet up the wooden steps,

cold-blooded with shame

after being told to change

The most beautiful part of

your body is it is safe

Remember to be gentle with yourself,

little one

Olivia, are you listening?

You can hang streamers from the rafters,

make the temple a celebrated-in place

Yes, here’s a room

where the walls

feel like home

The stained glass light 

stretching, bathing you in—

what?

Start to remember the words 

echoing in a different tongue

One from the foyer in the house 

where the hardwood was cast,

like spilled paint,

in warm afternoon light

And you used to lay in it,

like the cold-blooded animal you were,

looking for something outside of yourself

Remember—

Here is the room with the stained glass windows

and the streamers and the open door

I was with you on the hardwood floor

and on the Sunday morning steps

and on your bed when you tried not to think

I brought you safe to a place where you are,

where your daughter

will fling herself, laughing,

from the streamer hung walls 

The colored banners will hold

the weight of all her trust and fears

She will fall into warm-blooded

arms and know that she’s—

—Olivia?

It is January

 

It is January 

By Olivia Gwyn

Of course I worry

there is not enough time 

To take you in,

all of you

But of course there isn’t,

there never would be 

You’re asleep in my backseat 

in an infant car seat

And, God help me,

time is all I have

The sunlight slips through the branches

and I hope you know I love you

Let me take your little hand in mine,

show you all the ways you can be loved

Take the time and make it something worth

having had, something worth letting go

Teach myself blindly,

blindly how to set it free