Taxonomy

by Cara Peterhansel

I want to know the weeping leaves that willow 

the sky into a tapestry of greygreen.

I watch the tepid rain shepherding itself down storm 

drains, imagine each drop contains a name sucked

from a blade of grass tangle. 

Here I am again, slipping on the fabric strips

of syllables, hearing phonemes drip from sugared lips. 

I always find a way to verb myself into a poem.


Beside the nameless tree, I watch Woolly bears make 

their slow crossing. I used to call them something 

else, but what?  At touch, they curl in soft fear. 

When the sixth-grade boys shouted lesbian at me, well, 

weren’t they a little bit right?

Holding her hand, 

as I did, because it was soft, 

and she was there, beside me 

on the cold bench,

and I loved her, and

I didn’t feel the need to call it anything at all.


Cara Peterhansel (she/her) is a poet from Connecticut. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work explores the intersections of invisible and visible illness, injury, mental health, queerness, and art. Her work has previously appeared in Kissing Dynamite, The Laurel Review, and the Jet Fuel Review. She can be found online at carapeterhansel.com.