House of Body
Girl, the ends of you
are dramatic—:
Listen, I’m not trying to be rude
but can I ask does it hurt?
It must be so hard to do
normal things, you know?
Girl, you’re so strong,
Girl, can I touch it?
Ok
watergrain
pacific-bleeding heart
rivulet runnet driftwood tideway
body was all about the deadwood, bog—
shudder hour nocturne of soot
arson of fawn lilies
bog of rust hemlock cock
of another’s guilt and nettle—
in the backland, body wades half-sunken in the loam
radiated, limbless
where do you go, my one
now love, dressed
in throngs of bitter rock
to the empty station?
SCENE:
In a bikini
at a pool party
everyone will love you, Girl
Girl, you’re an inspiration
Girl, the broken
Girl
[hide the body]
nothing was said
to happen:
the boundaries of body were escaping
in lowlands unaware
so that the modest of lines would crumble fairly
without thought
weather of abundant appendages
I was never this remote:
how
The House
crumbles
for lack—
Sara J. Grossman’s poems and essays have appeared in Cincinnati Review, Verse Daily, Guernica, Louisville Review, Omniverse, American Literature, and elsewhere. She has received fellowships from Hedgebrook, The MacDowell Colony, and the Smithsonian. Her first book of poems, Let the House of Body Fall, will be published by New Issues Poetry & Prose, Fall 2018. She is an Assistant Professor of Environmental Studies at Bryn Mawr College and lives in Philadelphia.
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