Lizzy Burnam 🐞

You’ll learn how to dance,
how to mourn, 
how to Irish goodbye. 

You’ll learn why and why not, 
the question posed in poise, 
a harmless touch among the harmless noise, 
pupils black and growing, 
the feeling of a heart rate slowing, 
slowing, 
when it ought to run—
run fast and far away, 
the way you’ve done, 
the way you’ll learn to do again. 

You’ll learn that a good man 
hears “stop” 
and turns to stone. 

You’ll learn you don’t have to look long 
to find a secret love song, 
or the prettiest unpublished poem, 
a warning note scrawled 
from a dead woman who knows. 

You’ll learn to watch
for the deer-eyed,
the numb-hearted,
the ashen husks of people
haunting broken homes. 

You’ll learn to hide 
your cheerful reapers, 
return your naked devils
to their cage. 

You’ll learn every god’s 
pronouns
and the undeniable lightness 
of rage. 

You'll learn to dream 
and dream and dream
of how it'd feel 
and keep the need contained. 

You'll learn to love 
the words
you aren't supposed to say
the most
—to recite them like a prayer, 
feel them on your tongue
and in your throat,
for a moment, even just a moment, 
every day.