This summer, I am keeping a collective of my writing, from drafts through revisions to the version I am willing to let live. This post is for the poem “Baby.”

Trigger warning: domestic violence

baby
she has a bruise on each thigh and i have rings on both hands. i kiss her bluish skin and she blushes pink, peachy fresh. her face fits in my palm like the apples i slice into petals and feed her for breakfast. at dusk she takes my hand and leads me to the garden. she says i wantsomething new, and i take her face in one hand and slam it into the ivy wall. baby, baby, and i throw her to the ground and she’s holding onto my ankle with two little hands wrinkling at each wrist. we’re brand new, baby, i promise her. her face is flushed and she whimpers. the sky bleeds from her hairline off the tip of her nose. i take her head in my hands and her wide eyes are perfect globes. in her left iris i see a trail of ants circling in the grass. i hold her underwater and they drown on the bathtub floor. her skin is white and blue through the film of dirt. the water rises horizons over her skin and forms small islands on her breasts and knees. she fits in a hand towel and furls into my arms. brand new, baby. but her eyes are just as wide. i kiss them closed and love her again. see, baby? good as new.

Revision

• should not sensationalize the violence
• eeriness comes through
• clarify characterization of the female character

Baby
She is blue on each thigh and I’m bruised on each hand. I kiss her whitish skin and she blushes, pink-skinned. Her whole face fits in my palms. Hair threading curtains on her eyes. I part them for comfort, to look at something clear. Sometimes I hold her head while she sleeps. I hold her like the apples I skin, slice into petals, feed her for breakfast. Every time, she swallows the fruit without really chewing. One night at dusk, she leads me to the garden. She wants something new, so I take her face in one hand and slam it into the ivy wall. Baby, baby, and I throw her to the ground. She holds onto my ankle like it keeps her from falling. Each of her knuckles an apple inside out. Everything inside her rushing to the surface. We’re brand new, baby, I promise her. Her face is flushed. Her mouth hangs on a hinge. The sky bleeds from her hairline off the tip of her nose. It dampens the curtains dark, and I take her head in my hands to stare through them. I see her eyes are perfect globes. In her left iris I see a trail of ants circling in the grass. I hold her underwater and watch them wash down the bathtub drain. Her skin white and blue through the film of dirt. Her breath shallow like light hesitating at dawn. The water rising horizons over her breasts, forming islands on her knees. I dry her with a hand towel and she melts into my chest. Brand new, baby. But her eyes are watered with something dim. I kiss them closed and love her again. See, baby? but she doesn’t. Good as new, and she becomes it.