“Little Joys of June” and Other Works by C. Wiley

Catie Wiley is a 22 year old lesbian writer from Maryland. She has a B.A. in English from Bryn Mawr College. She’s a poetry reader for the winnow and a contributing editor at Story Magazine. Her work appears in HOLYFLEA!, HAD, and others. She tweets @catiewiley. Her website is catiewiley.wordpress.com

Photography by Strixx Slade

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Little Joys of June

in June we make jam,
crush strawberried fears
into sweet jelly
rejoicing.

she splits her orange,
gives me the bigger half,
says a pretty girl like me
deserves all the sweetness.

the sun sings to us in yellow
and I choreograph the dance
of spreading sunscreen
on her shoulders.

we picnic date
on bed of green,
gazing at the cumulus clouds.
(they hold hands like we do)

in her presence,
even my bluest moods
lose all their power
and change to bloom.

at the parade, they throw us candy
and I march all my purple skittles
into her hand
because I know
that they’re her favorite.

Heat index

rippling horizon
hellfire hot august

haze like sideways quicksand

if I stare too long
the hungry humidity
will sip my
sweaty body
through its
summer straw

Spring

There is something green
about this ache,
like a bruise that puffs out
pollen.
It stings more every spring.

When all the snow melts,
the scent of flowers wafts in
as a warning:
You’ll just get hurt again.

the forest waits for my return

i bookmarked my home
with spare twigs,
rested my wanderlust heart
in the hands of oak trees.
i told them I’d come back
no matter where I went.

flew to texas and greeted
the dirt with a smile,
held my hand out
hoping the hot dust would shake it.
found no solace, just sizzle
in those miles and miles of beige.

when the returning plane
started to breathe
the air of familiar,
i caught quick glimpse of green
emerald sea
through the eyes of my window.

i knew that those leaves
remembered
my name.

sleeping with the lights on

The lampshade in your childhood bedroom used to swallow your grief with its yellow funnel mouth. No monsters under the bed could hurt you. The light bulb glowed like a daffodil; its light holding you in halo. You spent all your nights dreaming of meadows and sun. A decade later, you sleep with the lights off. You’re not a baby anymore. Wanting comfort is the most embarrassing thing about being alive. When you were twelve, your mother took your baby blanket away from you. Too scared to argue, you let it go. When was the last time you felt at home? The last time you dreamt of meadows? You don’t let anyone hold your ache for you, not even for a moment. You won’t let anyone throw you a raft. It’s okay to need. It’s okay to fear. It’s okay to sleep with the lights on, no matter how old you are. Daffodils are always right around the corner. You just have to let them grow.

Fish Out Of Water

we were the sharks:
teeth out in a t-shaped pool,
free-finned and frolicking,
and we had it all.

our chlorine cooked eyes
blurred every sight, built
carefree kaleidoscope,
and we had it all.

no ache could out swim us
because we were the sharks
and our diving board roof
kept all the rain out.

every splash,
every swish,
muffled the other planet.
we were too far from
that hot concrete moon
for anything to matter

because we had it all.

but every pool drains
at some point.

every pool disappears
into desolate dryness.

we had it all

until we didn’t.

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