Nocturne

RUNNER UP FOR THE 2021 PINK POETRY PRIZE

Alt-text, to be read in any order:

I wake in a pain without place.

A functional problem, my doctor said, though I heard her say, You can stand it.

No longer a singular injury: not my left lower back, not my knee-creaks.

We hide our pain from other women; we teach each other how.

At my hip, my cat gathers all of her paws, tail on the bridge of her nose, tucked in for the long dark.

Pain of motion, pain of stillness, pain of separation.

Last month E’s aunt fell and didn’t tell anyone.

Soon, the harvest will hunch my shoulders.

In these wild hips I’ll stand and pound the weeping cabbage into submergence.

My mother doesn’t trust my brine and boils hers instead.

I won’t choose to bring a child into this lifetime.