The Archer

the first time
you told me you loved me,
it was nothing like lightning.  

I was not struck;
the earth did not shatter
or even shudder,
despite the cold
and the biting wind
which stole
the clouds of our breath
before they had time to mingle.  

you were so earnest,
peering into my eyes
and your gaze,
it was panoptic.   

the day you left,
you never said goodbye.  

it was like gravity,
two bodies, falling apart;
finally, I felt the
forking and flashing of
lightning preceding
the far-off sound of thunder; 

and I swear I heard it – the echo
of the electricity I hadn’t felt then,
sparkling, sizzling, on the southbound
A-train two stations shy of your stop;
love’s arrow having missed its mark
by miles, and more years than I care
to count; and you –
the archer, immortalized
in the act of aiming –
without release,
without relief.

The Names of Love

you will know love when it comes to you. 

you will ask what love looks like when you are young,
but you will know her face when you are older,
trace the curve of her cheek in your dreams,
press tender kisses to bitten lips, and you will
no longer wonder what love is like,
because you, having heard the thunder,
will be struck by lightning, and you will name it
like they named the stars in days of old.  

sometimes, rarely, you will know love
only when it leaves, and only then
by the lipstick stain she left on your mug,
the lingering scent of her perfume,
the soft snick of the door as it closes
and the low rustle of leaf litter
as some burrowing creature
tirelessly performs the work of mourning
without any expectation of thanks. 

in your sorrow, you will count out the names
of love; first love, true love, young love, love
for love’s sake; love that is not love until
it is love lost.

Sweet Summertime

we picked each other
wildflowers before
the city came and
mowed them down.  

the city proper was a diamond
in the distance,
all shining and glittering
like a far-off fantasy.  

we pretended slabs of driftwood
were the ancient remains
of long-ago shipwrecks,
spirits still stuck between worlds.  

we combed the beach
for trinkets left by tourists,
condemned to sift through
the ghosts they left on the shore.  

we held each other
in the ocean, and I remarked
on the way the sand shone
when the sunlight struck it. 

I remember – the humid heat,
the burning expanse of sand,
the stench of the bay at low tide,
how we prayed for rain.  

I could hear the cricket’s lament,
sounding long into the night,
I could almost reach out and
pluck the Strawberry Moon from the sky.  

and when it was over, I was left
standing by the moonlit bay, clutching
the flower you had given me in parting;
already wilting.

Author’s Biography

Caitlin Cacciatore (she/her) is a queer poet, writer, and essayist based on the outskirts of New York City. She believes that literature has the power to change minds and start movements. Caitlin is currently pursuing an MA in Digital Humanities with the goal of amplifying marginalized voices. Her work has appeared in Bacopa Literary Review, Sylvia Magazine, and many other literary magazines and journals. She loves animals, single-origin coffee, ethical fashion, and thrift stores. You can find her at caitlincacciatore.wordpress.com.