POEM OF THE MONTH
JANUARY
I've Lost the Smell of Youth
I'm too tired to find the stairs that lead to heaven. Still,
I think I'm doing okay. Still
steeped in lavender, l miss you still,
the morning dew on your shoulder blades and, still,
the spilled rum on the carpet, the soft yawn of the sun still
stepping over its own sighs, as I reach across the bed to taste the stale, still
mint from your tongue while somewhere, a town grows so still
it will never wake again. Don't worry, I promise this is a love poem. Still,
the chyron at the bottom of the television screen still
reads BREAKING NEWS as weeks later, bombs still
keep stealing kisses from buildings. I hear Jesus wept, but I'm pretty sure he's still
weeping. I promise this really is a love poem. Still,
I never forget to count the bullet casings still
scattered along the linoleum floor of the produce section of Kroger. Still,
I miss you so much, it's stupid. Still,
My dad was dying and then he was dead. Still,
my sister, the same. So, if I grow too quiet to be still,
please tell my daughter that sometimes a door is still
a door, and sometimes a backpack is still
a backpack, just with a bulletproof spine. Tell her, still,
sometimes all you can do is duck and be still.
Tell her my favorite history lesson still
hasn't been written, and that after everything, sometimes there is still
nothing else to say except help, please help, as I tell you yes, this is still
a love poem.
Leigh Chadwick's most recent collection is
Sophomore Slump(Malarkey Books, 2023).
Contributor’s Note:
When writing poetry, I rarely play with form or give myself any sort of parameters. I am too lazy to challenge myself in that way. (This is probably why I write so many prose poems—just shove all that shit into a paragraph and then you’re done.) But when I sat down to write this, I was stuck on the word “still,” as it is something I have been desperate to achieve—some stillness in life, a quiet movement through the brush of a Tuesday morning. I wanted every line to end with “still” because that’s what I need for myself. I have not yet achieved this, but, hell, I got a pretty damn good poem out of it.
Editor’s Note:
A Leigh Chadwick poem that is not a prose poem is rare, and to see her experiment with formal restraint even rarer. I love this poem for constantly telling itself (and us) that it is a love poem even though we know it is so much more — her personal seamlessly reaches out to the political, her individual self rooted in the collective. Thematically, it is typical of Leigh Chadwick: longing, gun violence, war, and the fear they produce. Serious dark subjects in Leigh’s playful language become a source of delight and emotional upheaval at once: “bombs still / keep stealing kisses from buildings. I hear Jesus wept, but I'm pretty sure he's still / weeping. I promise this really is a love poem.” I love that! That every line ends with “still” and yet the poem mirrors the chaos around us is remarkable. A meditation on mortality, our desire to love and our desperation for help, this is the poem of our times.
— Karan Kapoor
We had the great pleasure of publishing a few poems by Leigh last year, alongside an interview. I urge you to spend time with her words!
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