Poetry: Someday I’ll Love Danielle DeTiberus by Danielle DeTiberus

Even though she doesn’t exactly exist.

Born a Saint, dropped the name before

She bled, before her body even had time

To sin. Though, that’s not exactly true either,

Danielle, now is it. Something happened to you—

Your therapist asked what good would come from

Knowing, and at first you’d wanted to

Hit her. But now you’re thankful for your mind’s

Unlit corners. A Do Not Disturb sign still left

On a few dead-end-doors. Whatever happened

To Danielle, some part of her knew to dig until

She hit stone. And then to bury it deeper than that.

To fissure stone with water over time. Water beats

Rock, but so does paper. Oh, Danielle, everyone knows

You can never shut up. So why should only

Men get to say their names in poems. Even if

All your poems are about one thing— because

You can’t stand to take in everything at once.

You let all the herbs in your garden flower because

The dill looked like yellow stardust, the cilantro

Bolted to snow. Now the green leaves taste

Bitter as the parts of yourself that will never

Flower. You’re impractical and greedy.

Whenever you feel like loving yourself, try

To forget what your mother said to you. She is

Also waiting to love herself. And the only woman

More dangerous than one who loves herself

Is the one who can’t quite yet, but knows she should.

Someday, too, Danielle will love the speaker

Of her poems— who’s always trying to make sense,

Make new, make right. The truth is, even though

She can write anything she wants, there’s always

A body, a mother, a failure, a flower. Stones and

Bones ground down to dust. Always something

Missing and her hunger and your hunger:

A hungry Danielle caterpillar waiting

To transform into some winged thing. Danielle,

I’d wanted to love you by the end of this poem,

But instead I’ve made you into a worm again.

Forgive me, I keep wanting to split us in two.

Danielle DeTiberus, someday, someday soon.