CAITLIN VILLACRUSIS
swamphouse, drowning
Mother, unhooded, I am in the confessional. Mother, I found bullfrog bones in the broth. Mother, I might forgive, but be honest, do I look so poisoned to you? Mother, the air is damp now, and I feel heavy. Mother, I remember weighing nothing. Mother, you seemed to be blessed when I filled spaces as a baby, so I hope you don’t need to pray today: I finally fill the bathtub. Mother, I discovered reflection just now, and I hate it, so I’m going down the pipes. Mother, I found more bones, so it must be more than just you draining me. Mother, when I come back, grease me back to cleanliness please. Mother, I decided I don’t like frogs better dead; I liked living better when little killers weren’t there at all. Mother, it’s almost like absence of love. Mother, I love ghosts more than I love my lovers. Mother, thank you for teaching me rain, because with the lightning, I can see me at four, died trying to find her way back to you somewhere downtown. Mother, I go downtown everyday now. Mother, it makes me feel dangerous, embracing ego, that artificial clarity. Mother, I hate reflection again. Mother, I lied earlier, I have no lovers anymore, they’re all ghosts, and I want them here, my temptation exposed in storms. Mother, I don’t know who or what contaminated my judgment, but what’s so wrong with wanting to try oil? Mother, don’t forget I’m a mixture myself, a body of water, survival dependent on nature. Mother, you’re not nature. Mother, you’re only roots. Mother, you aren’t strong enough to pull me back from inside the pipes, and Mother, upon internal inspection, I was built on no foundation. Mother, how does one construct a family? Mother, I probably shouldn’t have asked; I know Papa was our engineer. Mother, did I mess up his house? Mother, I miss when my body was small. Mother, before it all falls apart, I’m going to come home for soup. Mother, hooded, I confess: you were once Mama.
the yellow journalist (and little boy)
for little brother in a hurricane
baby it’s just rain out there and i know
you know but sometimes lightning isn’t
always reaching for some roots to find
faith in like us at a funeral and at a church
and at a resort beach with the candles and
sea shells on reverse birthdays oh you won’t
get that for a while baby just think beach
tell god how much you love a clear beach
and the wind’s gonna stop fighting palm
beach it’s awful out here but oh i can bet
it’s worse in miami remember running
in the rain in miami with our soaked slippers
and her river roads and wow that was when
you still thought it was my ami tu es mon ami
yeah language is funny like that did you know
that lake okeechobee natives called it
lake mayaimi guess the spaniards misplaced it
every map mixes up the lake and the city
but it’s okay cause the water ends up
in the same place even if it’s green no it’s not
like public water parks or bubble baths
baby it’s bloom like the lake is the eye
we’re gonna pass through to get to god
and the dying gators are the palms
fighting god to survive no you can’t
read the lines in palm leaves to figure out
if you marry debora because the palm leaves
are saying we’ll all die in pursuit of lightning
Caitlin Villacrusis is a Filipina-American poet based in Florida and a self-confessed pessimist. She is an Adroit Journal Poetry Mentee; a South Florida Youth Poet Ambassador; and a poetry editor at Hominum Journal, Hot Pot Magazine, and The Lunar Journal. Her work has been recognized by Gigantic Sequins and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers and is published or forthcoming in Bullshit Lit, COUNTERCLOCK Journal, Sophon Lit, and more. She can be found obsessing over Victoria Chang on Instagram at @catrose2022, Twitter at @caitlinvwrites, or at caitlinvillacrusis.carrd.co.