HOW I THOUGHT ABOUT MY BODY
Driving north through rain, I watched the Schuylkill
outgrow its banks. I’d packed three dildos,
an eighth of weed, a Danish novel:
the coffin that is childhood, the shadows
of old longing at the end. And in between,
streetlights and moon, loneliness, methadone,
a stolen jar of marmalade. I mean,
I thought about the edges: backbone,
burning nerves, closed borders. I wanted
to escape, but also be contained. We
built a fire, drank some wine. The blunted
smolder of damp wood, a stark tableau of trees.
We talked about the history of glass.
Outside, the forest, fog, and meadow grass.
(Eleanor Stanford)
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So good.