"When the Bough Breaks" by Catherine Garrett

When the Bough Breaks

In Ireland there’s a saying about Hawthorn trees:
the more they bloom, the worse the winter will be.
This summer, the pink and white Irish countryside
slow danced out my car window.
I could not begin to tell you how much I, too,
wish for a warning before things get bad again
How If I knew what was coming before the teeth sink in
Maybe I’d grow in another direction.

I look in the mirror and sometimes, do not recognize my own face.
only see flowers/legacy of picked petals
I wonder which one of you I borrowed these leaves from?

Bringing the branches in to your house is considered a bad omen
The odour of cut limbs compares to rotting flesh
But this is not the kind of thing that can stay behind closed doors forever.

We are not the traditional tap root
Stitch the names of our loved ones into our hands to hold the bouquets of bones
Thread the needle with the grey hair
Carry the deadweight of the goodbye wherever it brings us

The hawthorn is used for hedging
Keeps the danger out and the family close
I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.

I am 17 when she mentions mental illness and
I have been experiencing symptoms for a decade.
No one has told me why.
Here I am digging through the trenches of my own fingerprints
Trying to crawl out of the veins //we// keep falling into.

I do believe there is love there, yes
Only no one knows when the branches will bloom next
Because every winter lasts a lifetime
Tell me who was she? Other than
My mother says our women have a sense of intuition
Know what’s coming for us before the teeth sink in
And that keeps us here/tethered
We were not unmade and so we made each other

When the trees blossom/the thorns stay hidden
Hold up my hands with her hands and try to see the difference
Blood is thicker than water
That isn’t to say you don’t drown in both

A sprig of hawthorn is believed to help prayers reach heaven.
and it’s sick how this illness keeps me gravedigging
Dirty secret/blood on the leaves of the family tree/those without names
buried beneath it

This tree is double barrel death-fertility and my name is not my own
Instead carries the weight of all that came before me/new life epitaph
Ask for the ghosts and they will come/Ask for the ghosts and they will find you
To plant a garden today is to believe in tomorrow
I have to believe I am more than the sum of my bloodline buried by their own seeds
each of us with the illusion of eternity

When I ask my mother where we come from
She admits she doesn’t know
That is exactly like my family
To run away from the shrapnel/turn the other cheek
Become the sheath/that/buries/the/sword

Catherine Garrett

Catherine Garrett is a queer line cook turned poet-journalist currently living in Prince George, BC. She was born in Ontario, raised on Haida Gwaii, and went to journalism school in Vancouver. She is currently the associate editor for Dovecote Magazine, and a full time reporter. She has represented Vancouver and Victoria a total of six times on national and international poetry stages, has two self published chapbooks, and really loves hockey. Her work has been featured in Oratorealis, Turnpike Magazine, and Link Magazine.

Headshot: Saskatoon Poetic Arts Festival

Photo Credit: Staff