By Arielle Corsetti
It will happen like this: with many hurts,
falling into a gallery of slow processions fanned out
like fistfuls of glass and stone. This is the story
of the city, of iron making iron bleed, of
singularities singing to cathedrals
from out of spirals and bone.
If I believed in anything,
I believe in the cycle, the same wounds
reappearing like swells and breaking tides.
This is the moment that I realize
that even when it ends, it begins
at the exact same time, with rekindling fire,
singular hands; the same words in sacred
repetition, faults and starts in tangled
Because anything truly loved can never die.
Because we will remember why it hurt,
and where it touched us; why we ask
the same questions every time:
where have you been, are you truth,
is this how it ends?
We break down
and we are rebuilt,
but that’s okay because I love you,
I am sutures and you are the scar or you are
the empty and I am arcs
and hisses of light, and we are dust
with memories, that searches,
and I am always finding you.
Ari Corsetti is currently pursuing a BA degree in English and Psychology at Flagler College. She has been passionate about creative writing since she can remember and is working on her second novel, IRONSONG. Her hobbies include being great at napping, eating sushi, and bad puns.