The animal in the fridge is the same
as the animal is my stomach.
I lean backwards and see a face
that I never imagined as mine
yet is now the present.
It’s easy to tell myself that my face
has always been a burial ground
but really it is just larger than before,
more bloated now,
like the loud groans of a mother hen.
I think I am allergic to my mother’s food.
Its steam rises from the dining room table.
You are on the other side of the table
with hands large enough to wrap around a pregnant belly.
I pray for the smell of human ribs.
But instead all I smell is still my mother’s food
like the stench of legs all cut up by old razor blades.
You watch me with your hair stained wet like a grapefruit.
We said we would love each other
Like we would strip each other to death,
suck at each other’s breaths,
leave bruises in the shape of grieving.
Grieve for my mother and her food.
The death of everyday is buried
in the backyard of my mother’s home.
By Loisa Fenichell
Loisa Fenichell loves what is subtly magical. When not writing poetry and when not doing homework and when not in class (she is a student at SUNY Purchase, where she primarily studies Literature and Creative Writing), she can be found reading, running, practicing yoga, walking around bookstores trying not to buy yet another book, and/or dreaming of Maine. Some of her poems can be found at polyphemuse.tumblr.com. You may contact her at email@example.com.