poems about being a body


to my incorporeal self:

envisage the discordant mass of your failings,

once-firm resolve collapsing into panic of inevitable oblivion,

the terror-tinged beauty of becoming

and The Way woken by pain that smarts


to sublimate:

i wander in homage to the assemblage of mirrors

i would ask that you bathe me in smoke

while we preserve witches’ jelly & wizards’ jam

in my winter dreambody

we both dip into the vernal pool

in my fertile fortress

i am wading through my fields of impenetrability

in the zone of my morning birth

i discover a sanctuary


it is time to blend in,

recede into the thicket,

take time to feel my bark,

reside within myself,

settle into bones


you hold

my squash blossom

in your tender elfen hands

lithe and strong like a slender bow


The Chyld Moon

i bandaged cracked soul with a bandeau

and each time the moon rises,

i cry for my inability to make this verisimilitude veritable


i have the following written in cuneiform for posterity.


i am leaving Flatland.

i am a woman with new flesh covered in estrogen grime.

i’m guarded by a two-headed hydra.


i carry multitudes within me: solids, algae, silts, particulate.

every movement made of tiny waves of unctuousness


in the grotto heart, my limestone center,

touch is everything.

i bathe and lift enchantment to another plane.

wellspring of joys. hidden caress of the subterranean lake.

concealed desire, now cracked, flows into the rich admixture.

alluvial manors, effluvial manners:

rare salts of love on my inner walls.


egg: it’s a passive, dormant state.

or perhaps a thing you grow out of, like my suffocating adolescence.

and yet, “oogenesis,” “ova,” “ovum,” “egg,”

these words mean something nascently powerful.


when i say “egg” i think of opal, abalone shell, or pearl.

precious but potent

something that glimmers in the moonlight,

something that radiates its own dawn


when i began to no longer fight myself,

i did not break my egg like ouroboros.

my eggs have always been inside me.

a dream clutch in my tummy

i carry my eggs, whether they are physical or not (they are not),

i have stopped caring if my barren flesh is host to a sick delusion

i may not carry real human female eggs capable of life,

but i still hold on to my spawn, and try to accept

the ovaries on top of my skin.