I broke open with a sigh, like a rotted pomegranate;
spilling flesh and seed, more red than rust.
I note this because I am often asked
for the color of my insides, where I rarely think to look.
Before I accept within me the pills, the needles,
I have to know: is it tissue? Is it blood?
When and how much do I drain and ache?
Every question hurts.
I want to close up, tight as a mollusk under siege,
to form a pearl in silence and solitude
under the ink-black sea.
I am an animal but I bleed like earth:
more lava than rock, more water than land,
more red than rust.
Abigail's work has most recently appeared in Heart Balm and Rough Diamond Poetry. She has poetry forthcoming in Amethyst Review and an essay forthcoming in Phoebe. Her work has also appeared in the Blackwell Philosophy and Popular Culture series.
She writes from her home on the South Shore of Long Island, New York, where she lives with her husband, daughter, and two cats. You can read more on her website at abigailmyers.com.
She writes from her home on the South Shore of Long Island, New York, where she lives with her husband, daughter, and two cats. You can read more on her website at abigailmyers.com.
Latest posts by Abigail Myers (see all)
- More Red than Rust - 11th February 2023