committed. ~ By Sarah E. Caouette

It was decided over tea
imported by way of Prague,
you would become the sole proprietor of my body--
for open arrangements of past
had left me deprived of the
umbilical charge
that runs soul to soul,
knocking on stark windows
to be let in
with hopes of settling into
a life together.

It wasn’t meant to sound
callow,
but it felt somewhat related
to this concern I’ve carried--
that we hide away the ugliness,
the degenerative parts--
not getting close to death
in the embarrassing act,
the marshlands of matchstick crosses,
the feeble fabric and grey matter,
and bloated reality
propped up like a carnival game,
only to be shot down again.

In one night,
I heard two stories.
And I’m still unsure who
to believe:
The Afghani who has witnessed
murderers in his streets
and speaks of a
levitating rock over Mecca.
Or the white doctor
of rhapsody,
who tells tales of Russians
stitching up mouths and nailing
their testicles to cement
as a statement—of their
endurance for pain.

I want to commit my faith
to both,
just like I want to commit
my body to you,
as a show and conviction
that I understand
the difference between
giving all freely,
and the covered bride
who rides in on the skinned horse.


*This work was recently published with DEAD FLOWERS: A Poetry Rag @ Bohemian Pupil Press


Author Bio:
Sarah E. Caouette is a New England-based writer of fiction/non-fiction, personal essay, and poetry. She holds an MFA in Creative Fiction from Southern New Hampshire University, and her work as of late has appeared with The Good Men Project, The Citron Review, and Cigale Literary. Currently residing in Portland, ME, her writing has recently been selected for the literary event, Word! Portland. She blogs at: www.sarahecaouette.com