A folio of other,
used up gas nozzle
of girl/woman.
Underpass bedroom
for the drought version of you,
in you,
childhood brokered
for blankets.
Body etched with age
and purpose.
Your age.
Others’ purpose.
Teeth break skin.
Doors latched open
by the hands before.
Loaned parachute,
borrowed dress,
cooked fish.
Your body goes back to you now.
Your spleen. Your clavicle.
Your ankle and hair.
you will paint your fingernails gold.
You will rub your calves with oil.

Share this
Continue Reading
About the Author

I am a writer of a certain age, foraging enthusiast, philanthropy professional, and occasional insomniac. My poetry has appeared in Twyckenham Notes, Cathexis Northwest Press, and the Blue Mountain Review and I enjoyed a residency at the Writers' Colony in Dairy Hollow in November 2019. I am also the editor of the new literary compendium, A Construction of Cranes (Plastic Flame Press, 2020). I live in Chicago with my husband and our plain brown dog.