Persephone's Daughters nominated this piece for the 2021 Pushcart Prize.
A lifetime of split nylons,
raw cotton shoved down my throat
Did I mention I have no gag reflex?
Did I mention I can tie entire trees worth of cherry stems with my tongue?
I try to arch my body into the impossible anatomy of a contortionist
imagine bonelessness,
whittle myself to the hair width of a cartoon character's waist.
Already knotted ropes along my spine spasming to 4/4 time,
I realize that this womanhood was not meant for me.
on the outskirts dedicating masterpieces
and whole museums to what have been named imperfections.
Every image of woman was hand-crafted
rough fingerprints still visible in the drying clay.
In the middle of this process named sacred,
hair mussed, makeup-less, unconstrained body spilling, I beg
that I put a finger down my throat and know
it is the last time with utter certainty
to pull the weaving from my stomach and not wince as the fibers
catch on the tender, irritated skin.
Rachael Gay is a poet and artist from Fargo, North Dakota. Her work has appeared in journals such as Anti-Heroin Chic, The Laurel Review, Rogue Agent, Ghost City Review, Gramma Poetry, FreezeRay Poetry, Rising Phoenix Review and others as well as the anthology What Keeps Us Here.