Hyperaware of eyelashes hovering over my field
of vision, so close & so there– I pluck them all out
the way I wish I could pluck the useless tongue
from my mouth, leaning against teeth that clack
like shattering glass on the wrong side of the ear
canal. Noise scrapes like sand in a sockless shoe,
digs at the skin in unseen symmetries until my body
resembles an alien topology. I wish I could say
your courtly hold on my ungloved hand feels softer
than chisel on marble, but every advertisement
of affection pares me down until I’m more skeleton
than girl, and how can a pile of loose bones navigate
a life like this? It’s all fluorescent lights, lacey
borders, unexpected ringtones, underwire bras.
When I am crowned Queen of a Body Transcended,
the coronation will take place in my sleep. And when
you kiss my forehead, for the first time I won’t feel
corrosive acid eating at strata of petrified muscle.
You will wreathe my shoulders in vegetable greens,
and celebrate the pearl for lack of the oyster.
AUDREY DUBOIS is a poet from Rhode Island, and is currently a creative writing graduate student at Emerson College. Her work has appeared in Plain China and Rushlight. She likes weird antiques, frozen yogurt, and PBS documentaries about Karen Carpenter. Audrey can be found on social media at @platypusinplaid.