MERIWETHER CLARKE
BODY OF WATER
At night
my skin began to
change. It was something new
to be sad about:
first, the disappearance
of birds outside
and then lines
where my body
stretched into little slopes
covered in half-buried
worms. Sometimes
I asked the mirror
why I looked this way.
I wanted
my sister’s hands. I wanted
legs like a doll. At the very least,
I wanted a return
to my old
girl-shape: feathery and lean, durable
as plastic, now bent
in too many different
ways to recognize myself.
In bed I closed my eyes
and pretended
my hands
were pieces of paper
thrown out the window and scattered
below. My body became a pond,
fluid and skinless.
I was something with distance
from land, something more
than flesh for blood
to bloom out of, like the scent
of a petal fragrant and
mostly unseen.
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*** ** ***
COTTONWOOD
On my thirteenth birthday I became
a cottonwood tree.
It was painless and fast, the soft dough
of bones rising before
silence as the day moved on.
The other saplings
welcomed me, whispered
what’s it like
to move? They told me they wished to run–
in thunder storms, in
fire season, at the occasional pinch
of pocket knives
carving lopsided hearts into
their feet.
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*** ** ***
STARES CAN
invade
like trying to see
the stems of flowers
through
their vase:
sunflower— thick and ridged; pansy—
emaciated waif. It makes
me want
to be bagged, be square-shaped
with a covered neck and
eyes sewn shut.
Too close to a
shroud, I can’t help
but think. And what
of ice cold tiles on bare pink
feet— oh, how I would
miss all that.
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*** ** ***
SNOW STORM
While you drew
snow flakes on my back
I imagined the felt-tipped
pen was
something real,
a permanent ice
bonded to skin
that before you was untouched
It was
so soft,
like fingers, almost, or lips
small enough to kiss
each lonely cell.
It was light enough, too, not to last
too long. The next day,
shower water became grey
and I
felt
like Springtime ground,
sad and bare
in all
this newness.
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*** ** ***
MORNING, AT THE SHORE
I wake and there is
no where to go but back to the lake.
I left my voice there, threw it
in the water days before, when the air
smelled like church and I didn’t think
I’d need it. I walk the perimeter, dip
my face in and open my mouth.
When that doesn’t work
I try stones.
As they leave my palm and
arc through the air I decide
to fly, not to swim, is the
opposite of to drown. These rocks
know both: what it means
to soar over sorrow, what
it means to land back in it. They
will never speak of it, though,
unless I dive into
the heavy bottom, and carry them,
unwillingly, back out.
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MERIWETHER CLARKE
Meriwether Clarke is a poet and educator living in Los Angeles, California. Recent poems can be seen in The Journal, Juked, The Superstition Review, Leveler, Memorious, Prelude, Salt Hill, The Blueshift Review, and elsewhere. She currently serves as a Contributing Editor for Entropy.
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