stockholm

a love story in three parts after Roxy Allen and Reginald Edmonds

i.

it’s not entirely true that esposa means wife

in english. once, it meant bride.

the distance between the two isn’t vast,

just a world. even boyfriend lost its essential

meaning. once, in spanish, it might’ve meant

newlyweds.

//

if held to the light, i guess obsession

holds water better than love. in each of the stories,

though, the hero rescues his love

and stops the canoe

just before it tips over the world’s edge.

the moral is: a cliff is still

a cliff, even if the hero put you on it.

it doesn’t matter if one word

bound you to the edge, and the other

became the river promising to carry

you over it. none of that is the

point. i’m waiting for the canoe to

tip over. i’m waiting for him

to save me.

ii.

how long is it before captivity sets

in? is it the circle of metal teeth, its

gentle latch around one

wrist? or perhaps the step back,

the silent offer: now you try.

stupid manchild. don’t you know

what you’ve done to me? groom

reads first, then bride. i wanted you

to do the fastening; both wrists. that’s

not the point, either. don’t you

know: in spanish, esposa also means

handcuff.

//

i wanted to say no i tried to say no no that’s not true i didn’t try to say no

but i think i should’ve wanted to if i could’ve i couldn’t say no how could i

say no the alternative was too sad what is rape when it isn’t done by a stranger

is it sad should i be sad am i sad is rape sad if i counted the seconds while

i looked at the wall there would’ve been fingers left over that’s how long it

was would it have made a difference if i used my hands if i chose to have

fought if i was sad in that impossible forever where we were tied where we

said [ ] where after you pulled your fingers from me i put myself against

your side and you held me and i leaned in so you could kiss me in bed and

made me feel safe and tender and warm i knew i would say nothing or had

i said no i knew it would kill me because some part of me still thinks this is

it because how else would i know i am loved how else would i know i am

loved

iii.

memory says i must’ve showered.

heartbreak asks why i would. here’s

the thing: my wrist

is getting sore. it doesn’t matter what i did.

i already know how to bind myself

to something that hurt me. but you took one choice

and left me with another. if you must

be a thief, then let it be everything.

even if i wanted

to take it off, not even time can scrub the

memory of wearing it. claw

the church’s windows back into sand,

light the whole thing ablaze, flood

what remains until it is mushy

foundation, and a bride will still be

a bride until vows say different. do you

understand now?

you said nothing when you were

in me. so then, picture: a young boy,

at the altar of his own heart,

waiting for his turn

to speak. which sin is worse: that it

won’t be long before the other wrist

is shackled, that i know how

to put it on, or that i learned it from my

mother?

//

i wanted to i tried to

but i couldn’t how could i

the alternative was stranger

am i the seconds

left over how long

would i have

fought if forever tied

me against

your side you and i leaned in kiss me

or

kill me because this is

how i know i am

loved