My Fingers Are Trying
How I envy you.
Not for your hair, or your teeth,
but for the way you hold yourself like a castle.
The way others want to climb up your tower.
I am the fortress no one wants to claim.
There is ivy growing on my limbs
and my corridors are so hollow
that thoughts echo inside of them for days.
Your chambers are full of trombones.
There is light streaming into your windows,
and laughter tickling your chandeliers.
There are knights knocking at your door.
Your walls are made from the finest glass
so that anyone can look into your navigable heart.
I have trouble merely unlocking my front gates.
I swear my fingers are trying.
Most days they are earthquakes,
but sometimes they seem to tremble less.
It’ll take time to clear all the debris from my lawn,
but eventually I will sweep my floors.
I will mend my pillars
and learn how to stand straight.
I am beginning with simple fixes.
Hanging banners in the drawing room,
and tending to the fire.
One day, my breath will be used for kindling.
People will come over for supper.
My palace has always overlooked yours,
but soon I will not be resentful.
Until then,
I must be patient with myself.
In The Afterlife
You take my heart into your hands and tell me it is too heavy.
That my soul is an anchor to your fleeting ship.
I am learning not to apologise every time I weigh someone down.
Reminding myself that bones are calcium
and skin is bronze,
so I have every right to be massive.
That doesn’t make me cumbersome.
What it means is that I sink easily.
It’ll take me twice as long to figure out how to float,
and maybe at first I’ll start off slow.
But I am sturdy.
In fact, I am so far from empty that some days,
my body feels like it can’t even fit inside the Milky Way.
Like there are stars going supernova on my skin.
Like the only way I can continue to exist is by collapsing.
I will not be surprised when Ammit devours me whole.
I’ll say here, go ahead.
Take my falsehoods.
Chew on my mistakes.
I already know how many contradictions live inside my ribcage.
Gnaw on my skeleton
and taste the air trapped inside of me.
The afterlife is for the faint of heart,
but I am made to hold mountains.
There are lions being born inside my chest.
Swallow me like a lover.
I am certain that I will survive it.
Leonor Morrow is a first year student at Georgetown University. She plans to major in Culture and Politics. She is a member and officer of The Corpus Collective, Georgetown’s spoken word community. Some of her hobbies include figure skating, ballroom dancing, learning foreign languages, and winning Monopoly games. Her poems and photographs have been featured in various literary magazines, including Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Hooligan Magazine, and The Harpoon Review.
