Updated: Aug 5, 2018
by Elizabeth Conard
this spring there is no girl left in me.
It gradually becomes clear.
It suddenly becomes.
On the street I am more heavy than light. Gnashed by day
and pockmarked by night.
What will my body be
when there is nowhere left to be touched?
It’s March now. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Things you can’t help but do instinctually.
Twice a week my dreams have teeth,
rushing in to ravage the soft parts.
When I wake up, I find molars in my hair with no memory
of how they got there. Aren’t we all just trying to
understand the things we find on
and in ourselves? I want to explore a while.
Don’t want a cipher or an absolute, don’t want
to be laid gently or racked raw.
If I hold. If I crumple. If I expand.
If I enclose. Weigh. Polarize. Radiate
in a starless room. Would you
open me up so I can see where this is going?
Could we just lie down?
About the author: Elizabeth Conard grew up in Vermont, perpetually stuck in a snowbank and smelling of cow manure. She now lives in Philadelphia in an attempt to be stuck in less snowbanks and maybe smell better too. Her poetry has been published in The Times Argus and Pamplemousse and her poetry collection On Consumption is available through Google Books. Liz created Heliopause in 2017 after the (false) realization that she might never write or create artwork again. She also hopes you all don't judge her too much for accepting her own poetry into a publication in which she is the poetry editor.
She tweets: @etceteraaaa