Hot Metal Bridge

Current Issue : Number Twenty-Five

Two Poems


The Dolomites
I stitch your pale mountains in a glacial quilt

so nothing can keep you warm. I swan all over

you in the night, my neck a snaked disaster,

my mouth dry and drier. I make your perfect

likeness in a lake of my own undoing, a lake

so pure it cannot freeze until I throw something

into it. Something large like a horse or you.

There you both are, you and your reflection

in the lake, joined at the toes, balancing away

from each other from your smallest common

point. I rotate your symmetry into something

unrecognizable. I quilt you into your own

quilt. You pale in perfect landscape. Now I

know where you will never not be waiting

when I come to call.


Men are not Mirrors
There is the movement I make and the shadow

of that movement and the memory of movement

which stays in the room for a while like lights-gone-off

burned into the backs of your eyelids. Not all scars

are permanent. Maybe I am walking at a pace

that makes me invisible to you. Maybe I have fixed

my hair a few times. For work I dress chin to ankle

and still my body can be too much. Still the old man

at the supermarket insists on bringing our cart out

so he can encourage me to get pregnant. He says,

sometimes you go to sleep at night and then wake up pregnant.

Sometimes we have met somewhere in two separate

cars and we must drive home separately so I cannot

keep telling you what I heard on the radio. And anyway,

we hear new things. Your body moves through the world

and my body moves through an entirely different

world, though we can see each other mostly the entire time.



Caroline Cabrera is the author of The Bicycle Year (H_NGM_N BKS 2015), Flood Bloom (H_NGM_N BKS 2013) and the chapbook Dear Sensitive Beard (dancing girl press 2012). She lives in Denver with her husband and their cat, Yossarian. You can find her online at