C. F. Sibley


I became part of the house, its heart
many-valved and attached. It’s true

I grew tired of beating. I wanted
to say more than I am. For example:

I was or I will be. We will not speak
about what happened at night, except

that there were hands,
that they were wood white and pale.

Silence taught me well,
but not to be good. I closed up

my pronouns, fashioned boxes
and buried them in red clay.

As if the color of the earth
mattered. My gods were stone, pocked

with rain, waiting for birds. I warned them
about biography, the horror and I

continue. There was a garden
with roses, where air was scarce. I liked it

even lightheaded, even aching
for the enemy. I hated the moon

for its plainness. There was beauty
and it was paid for. I stood

at the windows in late afternoon
and ripened. Wanting to be

inevitable. There were other roads to hell
but this was mine.





C. F. Sibley is the Assistant Editor at Parnassus: Poetry in Review. She received a scholarship to Breadloaf Writers’ Conference in 2012 and an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University. Her work has appeared in or is forthcoming from DIAGRAM, Sugar House, FIELD, Muzzle Magazine, and was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2015.