16 Months After 9:45 p.m.
Victoria Gransee | Poetry, Summer 2023
After Gabrielle Calvocoressi
You died. Want you back.
Would love to catch a glimpse.
Even if bloody. Even if from
The ceiling, jaw torn open
Want you back. Would enjoy a night in the woods.
Like animals. No phones, no cars,
No highways and their roadkill-matter.
Your arms bent at the normal angles.
Want to fill the bathroom with steam.
Blunt out the window. Wash your hair for the smell.
Want to lean out the window, just an inch too far. Exhale.
Would enjoy your fingers around my wrist, pulling me
Back inside. Kiss the concave of your skull.
And forget to go home for the night.
Want back the Summer. Three years.
Of seeing firelight hair and walking toward it.
Would enjoy another night in the lake.
Whispering, Wondering, Wading. A different kind of Wanting.
Want to see your father’s face go blank
Without thinking about the way it sounded.
Like a falling building. Like slurred speech. Like the gas pedal pressed too far.
Want you back. Even if uncomfortable. Even if spectral, if fire.
Would still let you in, you know. Walk right through me. Burn me.
Want you back. Don’t want to leave
Flowers in ditches
Again. Want you back.
Even as ruination. Even as glimpse.
___________________________________________
Victoria Gransee (@vgransee) is a Wisconsin-based writer fascinated by memory, self, and the divine.
16 Months After 9:45 p.m.
Victoria Gransee | Poetry, Summer 2023
After Gabrielle Calvocoressi
You died. Want you back.
Would love to catch a glimpse.
Even if bloody. Even if from
The ceiling, jaw torn open
Want you back. Would enjoy a night in the woods.
Like animals. No phones, no cars,
No highways and their roadkill-matter.
Your arms bent at the normal angles.
Want to fill the bathroom with steam.
Blunt out the window. Wash your hair for the smell.
Want to lean out the window, just an inch too far. Exhale.
Would enjoy your fingers around my wrist, pulling me
Back inside. Kiss the concave of your skull.
And forget to go home for the night.
Want back the Summer. Three years.
Of seeing firelight hair and walking toward it.
Would enjoy another night in the lake.
Whispering, Wondering, Wading. A different kind of Wanting.
Want to see your father’s face go blank
Without thinking about the way it sounded.
Like a falling building. Like slurred speech. Like the gas pedal pressed too far.
Want you back. Even if uncomfortable. Even if spectral, if fire.
Would still let you in, you know. Walk right through me. Burn me.
Want you back. Don’t want to leave
Flowers in ditches
Again. Want you back.
Even as ruination. Even as glimpse.
________________________________________________________________________
Victoria Gransee (@vgransee) is a Wisconsin-based writer fascinated by memory, self, and the divine.
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