IMAGINE! HIS LEFT HAND CRADLING MY HEAD, HIS RIGHT ARM AROUND MY WAIST! I CHARGE YOU, SISTERS: DO NOT AWAKEN LOVE UNTIL IT SO DESIRES
I tithe 10% of my new underwear to my future
self, the one who has fallen in love.
I hide it under my mattress. I forget
to fall in love. I live until my hair is long and white.
When I die, I stick around for a while.
My future self, undulating like a moon,
discovers my stash. I watch her smooth the lace
over her hips, over her moon and stars. She fans
her fingers and presses them against her belly, brushes the tip
of her thumb against a pink bow.
But has she fallen in love? I ask. Have you?
I ask
standing behind her in the mirror.
LEANNE DRAPEAU is a teacher and writer from Connecticut, USA. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and an MFA candidate at Randolph College in Virginia.
the story / the two white women will not retract, despite the fact /
that inside each story we tell another writes itself
When the dogs had finished their business, they were, for quite some time afterward, unable to disentangle, and the Abbot asked us not to disturb them. After he had anointed them with holy water, they slid apart and scurried out of the temple. I followed them out into the street.
the intoxicating ministry of dusk, the anchor of daylight lifting, sheets white / like a freshly crushed pill, // the vortex of the body and the clap of the / coral tongue...
Before we go any further, I want to publicly acknowledge //
that I love every person in this room. I mean it. /
We’ve traveled from all over to be here, and I love /
each of you, all of you, every last one of you, except /
Harold
How horrible does someone’s relationship with their mother, their childhood, have to be that its description is so much more harrowing than the account of that same person’s serial murders?
In the evenings Karcsi sat quietly at the table and watched his mother pray. Her lips moved silently through the rosary, and he looked as if he were trying to figure out which part of the prayer she was saying.
Billie is the first to sprout breasts in our bunk, her body so coveted amongst our puny group that when she admits to picking her nose, no one says a word about it.
Along one river fell /
all the luck in the world.
Starting this year, B O D Y will be producing three triannual issues per year: a Winter...
The man keeps telling me I’m beautiful. /
I still look young. //
He says it like I’ve asked for it, /
but I don’t care. //
For him or beauty.
