Annalise Parady
Things That Grow in the Dark
CW: disordered eating
I watched your hand stretch
down your throat, fingernails
clawing out a lump from deep
within your ribcage. Your wince
signaled scratches left there behind
your heart as you held something
flesh-like out in your palm. Together,
we stared at an ugly, purple, wretched
creature writhing in the open air.
Our frozen silence began to thaw.
We decided what an ugly thing
must need is to be touched
by the sun - as we all do.
I’ll sit with it on the porch,
I offered, so you could go
meet the school bus coming up
the hill. My eyelids were kissed
by warmth and I wondered
if the wretched thing could feel
that, too. I asked instead for a name.
Guilt, it whispered, responding
in a language that I, too, can speak.
I didn’t question whether it had been thriving
in the dark places in your chest.
While I watched over Guilt,
you went down into the woods
with your daughter. Together, you found
blankets of mountain laurels
to wrap yourselves in.
I have yet to see
the mountain laurels with my own eyes.
No matter, I saw how they bloom
in the way your hand clasped
with hers as you came walking back.
I heard their pink-white petals
in the way you two were singing.
Did you bring one back for us?
I asked. Did you swallow one
to see if it might live?
When Men Had a Curfew
The government told all men - yes, all men -
that they were not to go out after dark.
The rest of us, you and I and all the others, eased
into our red coats to ready for nightfall.
The mirrors glinted with temptation
but we strode past, loosing our top-knotted hair,
stepping assured out to corners with broken street lights.
Our soles ran down the center of the sidewalk like a nerve
through a shiverless spine. We savored confidence
that was not born of defiance. We wavered
for no one. What do you call it when you don’t need
to be brave? Our legs stretched light as a bird’s
without the weight of a biological clock on our shoulders.
We’d left those ticking on the kitchen counter for the men
to tend to alongside the laundry and the children.
No instructions hung on the fridge. No gold medals
hung around their neck. The men at home softened
on their sofas. They rubbed lavender lotion
on their wide hands, marveled at the silky smooth nature
of palms that have never let anger rough the surface.
They took this tender skin and wrapped their arms
around the children in their beds, let love hit the spot
behind their knees until they weakened
into joy. All the men in their houses found themselves
weeping - yes, all men - letting loose their tears
until water swelled out the windows. They bathed
in their ache. Later, when the river carried the rest
of us back home, we held their heads to our chests
and spilled open with stories of how the city looks
after dark, how it feels to walk alone
with a straight neck. The men listened
and listened and listened, noticing
our jaws relax at the memory, waiting
until all our words were set free, waiting
for the stillness of dawn to tell us how
they, too, felt safe for the first time.
Annalise Parady is a poet, social worker, and pie baker. She currently resides in the Sonoran Desert in Phoenix, Arizona, but was born and raised in Wyoming. Her childhood poems placed in a statewide writing contest when she was in the fourth grade, but she didn't return to writing poetry until her thirties. Annalise is always available to tell you a fun fact about the creatures and plants of the desert, you can find her on Instagram at @annalisewrites.