3 Poems by Hannah Cajandig-Taylor
Effigy
I have been bleeding
for half of my life
by now—cadmium veins,
spider legged vessels
& feathers wet, my aching
teeth & skin demarcated. You scraped me out—
planted daisies
in my carcass. Is the blueblack night
more than a cross
section of dark tissue
paper wrapped over my heavy eyes.
Is this self
sacrifice.
Is this falling,
or is this letting go.
I have been bleeding
for half of my life
by now—cadmium veins,
spider legged vessels
& feathers wet, my aching
teeth & skin demarcated. You scraped me out—
planted daisies
in my carcass. Is the blueblack night
more than a cross
section of dark tissue
paper wrapped over my heavy eyes.
Is this self
sacrifice.
Is this falling,
or is this letting go.
First Snow
Bluepink snow curls into piles outside. When hunger sets in,
you let it. November calls
for blizzards & intimate conversations & celebrating
Halloween a week late, carving
miniature pumpkins with off-white skin & wearing tulle to become
the girl in a Midwestern fairy tale. The roaring of rivers
sharpens to quiet ice, the glacial streams wanting to be crossed & you want to
dance until your not-glass boots seep through
the frozen mud, your toes numb but you always been comfortable with losing
feeling in your aching feet. Fragments of chilled water drift
in a kaleidoscope of winter. You reach in, clasping the pieces until you feel them
grow smaller & smaller & this will be the moment you walk
further into the woods, fracturing among the scatters of light.
Bluepink snow curls into piles outside. When hunger sets in,
you let it. November calls
for blizzards & intimate conversations & celebrating
Halloween a week late, carving
miniature pumpkins with off-white skin & wearing tulle to become
the girl in a Midwestern fairy tale. The roaring of rivers
sharpens to quiet ice, the glacial streams wanting to be crossed & you want to
dance until your not-glass boots seep through
the frozen mud, your toes numb but you always been comfortable with losing
feeling in your aching feet. Fragments of chilled water drift
in a kaleidoscope of winter. You reach in, clasping the pieces until you feel them
grow smaller & smaller & this will be the moment you walk
further into the woods, fracturing among the scatters of light.
Situations
previously appeared in Cajandig-Taylor's chapbook ROMANTIC PORTRAIT OF A NATURAL DISASTER (Finishing Line Press, 2020)
One would think that broken zippers
& unspooled cuckoo-clocks
might fit the category—or lipstick pink
doll dresses with torn pockets,
or waking up a half hour too late
for my great grandfather’s funeral.
I am fleeting with nightmares, my brain
spun out of funnel clouds. Storms are
circumstantial, beauty is situational
& I am still distracted
by a sinkhole eating Detroit.
In Pennsylvania, a town has been
spouting hellfire for years. Everyday
is the end of the world, each season
braiding a noose
from the daffodil yellow roots
below my clouded window.
Don’t let it rot you—this notion
of fixing & unfixing
& calling it closure. Don’t
keep track of the days
& deaths & paper clocks.
Call this something else. Call this
anything but desirable.
Call this being in love
with any situation
on the brink of collapse.
previously appeared in Cajandig-Taylor's chapbook ROMANTIC PORTRAIT OF A NATURAL DISASTER (Finishing Line Press, 2020)
One would think that broken zippers
& unspooled cuckoo-clocks
might fit the category—or lipstick pink
doll dresses with torn pockets,
or waking up a half hour too late
for my great grandfather’s funeral.
I am fleeting with nightmares, my brain
spun out of funnel clouds. Storms are
circumstantial, beauty is situational
& I am still distracted
by a sinkhole eating Detroit.
In Pennsylvania, a town has been
spouting hellfire for years. Everyday
is the end of the world, each season
braiding a noose
from the daffodil yellow roots
below my clouded window.
Don’t let it rot you—this notion
of fixing & unfixing
& calling it closure. Don’t
keep track of the days
& deaths & paper clocks.
Call this something else. Call this
anything but desirable.
Call this being in love
with any situation
on the brink of collapse.
Hannah Cajandig-Taylor resides in the Upper Peninsula, where she is an editor for Passages North. Her poetry and prose has appeared in Gordon Square Review, Drunk Monkeys, FlyPaper Lit, Lunate, Coffin Bell Journal, and Third Point Press, among others. She has been nominated for a Best Small Fictions award and still plays Nancy Drew games on her computer.