Poetry by Katy Santiff
You asked me of my past so I built for
you a casket of materials I’d
spackled hard and deep within my glooms, and
the sides are shucked from memories of hurts
that I’d entombed. See, the bottom’s built of
almost death; the lining’s made of mourning
breath. The top, you cleavered open when you
walked into the room.
You asked me of my mind so I wove
for you a basket of materials
that hardened far too long in me, inside,
and the sides are woven memories where
in myself I’d hide–where in some grassy
notions, all once swaying in a warmer
tide, I braided up around me, and so
safely in that grass that died, I made for
me an armor, and I lied.
You asked me of my heart so I started
to unmask it, releasing buzzing hordes
of things still swarming captive in my hive.
And wondering how I kept them there–how combed
I’d made that waxy maze–I guess I ate
them all alive, and somehow swept into
what vacuums do (how they suck the finer
stuff from air), down they would have had to dive.
Something sad and viscous kept them honeyed there.
About the Poet
Katy Santiff has written poetry in various forms all her life. A fan of meter and rhyme, she loves lines that hypnotize the reader with their sound. She believes in densely packed poems, preferring them to be mouthful when read aloud. A lifelong Marylander, she loves waterside living. She currently resides in Edgewater, Maryland. Her works have been published in Vita Brevis, Spillwords Press, and Uppagus Magazine.