I want to run night falls,
leave scabs of purpose on my hands,
watch the scabs linger
like my father’s face in the doorway
of my childhood bedroom. We used
to say goodnight to each other translated
into 10 different languages.
Translate this: I only know
how to leak myself all out
after I’ve already deflated myself (used
to call this cleaning). Which leaves only
a heaviness like the taste of chocolate
& berries of guilt. Which I wish
I could call nothing.
I am no emperor of my body,
of you looking at me (of whether
or not you look like me). This lack
of control like the startled mess
that come after looking upon
the face of somebody you could have sworn
had died. Perhaps a stranger. Somebody
spoken to once on a subway platform.
I’m walking yes but I’m not feeling:
see me with bathroom tiles foaming
at the corners of my mouth:
this is what it means to finally
make a mistake the way my Mother
always told me I would.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org