I miss my limbs when they spread like raspberry sweet
on toast. Detached kneecap, forgetting places have
names you can sing to fall asleep. Each rib cage
a promise of bone marrow mystery. Maybe today
my mirror will trade concern for laughter
—even stone can turn supple with touch.
In Pompeii, the lip of a well caved in with so many
elbows pressed to gather. Thousands of collectors
with open palms, impressions left like chalk outlines
on city streets. Full-length mirror of flyaways and
muscles that only spasm in shadow. Torsos chipped
with baby teeth, gnawing urge to drape satin on skin.
Collarbones kissed by old mouths heavy with sleep
and cavities. Every mother before me dreams of a cracked
womb and strangers idling around the subway pole.
But that’s mine, I scream to no one in particular.
Breath held for the icy waves of early June,
packs of naked backs beneath the froth.
J once said beautiful is just how a face
moves in half light. Loose mesh
memory of touch. Rows of silver fish
on waiting shores, speared--
their lips part with salt,
desperate with the early hour’s
need to speak
on toast. Detached kneecap, forgetting places have
names you can sing to fall asleep. Each rib cage
a promise of bone marrow mystery. Maybe today
my mirror will trade concern for laughter
—even stone can turn supple with touch.
In Pompeii, the lip of a well caved in with so many
elbows pressed to gather. Thousands of collectors
with open palms, impressions left like chalk outlines
on city streets. Full-length mirror of flyaways and
muscles that only spasm in shadow. Torsos chipped
with baby teeth, gnawing urge to drape satin on skin.
Collarbones kissed by old mouths heavy with sleep
and cavities. Every mother before me dreams of a cracked
womb and strangers idling around the subway pole.
But that’s mine, I scream to no one in particular.
Breath held for the icy waves of early June,
packs of naked backs beneath the froth.
J once said beautiful is just how a face
moves in half light. Loose mesh
memory of touch. Rows of silver fish
on waiting shores, speared--
their lips part with salt,
desperate with the early hour’s
need to speak
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Sofia Bagdade is a poet from New York City. Her work appears in One Art, The Shore, and Roi Fainéant Press, among other publications. More of her work can be found at sofiabagdade.weebly.com, or on Instagram @sofiabagdade. She finds joy in smooth ink, orange light, and French Bulldogs.
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