CONFESSION



I have a hard time writing anything confessional
             if confessing means remembering the body.

I do not remember my body when it came to in
             the wrong corners of the wrong

rooms—a pane of glass, a thin man’s
             cocaine. Here’s one thing: I loved

the old earth like I loved starvation, how high
             I could get getting nothing.

Who taught me that?

I breathed under the field of flowers. I breathed
             under too many anonymous male

molecules. I wove a shrove waiting
             for the old earth to return. I swam myself out

on a wooden raft, Action matchbook
             in hand. I took seventy pills all uppers

all downers. I kept walking
             around in a castle of flesh, calling

it a kingdom, calling myself king.
             Most things you wholly love leave you & never

come back.


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Cait Weiss Orcutt lives in Texas while she pursues her PhD in Poetry at the University of Houston while teaching kids and adults creative writing through Writers in the Schools and Inprint. Her work has been published in FIELD, Prelude, Chautauqua and more. Cait's book -- VALLEYSPEAK, winner of the 2016 Zone 3 First Book Prize judged by Douglas Kearney -- came out November 2017.