by Elise Rothenhoefer
Soft As Milk
I am not made pregnant by my circumstances.
If I were, I would tie the strands of my pubic hair together
so that the baby could not escape through the knots
and I would be whole forever—
lips laced like a shoe.
Sometimes my ears itch on the inside.
Sometimes, my sister would ask me to squeeze her wrists
until her hands lost feeling,
and sometimes I did it—
our backs pressed up against the throbbing
maximalism of adolescence.
When I was eleven, I promised a piece of paper
that I would never smoke a cigarette;
that I would be small and smart and soft;
that I would not swallow what was placed in my mouth.
But this body is an unlikely home:
It is Styrofoam cups and Tupperware for China;
it is the smell of a candle that’s just been blown out;
it is a nine-minute egg,
gently torn apart
by hand.
The Echo of the Music
At six months, my mother began teaching my sister and me how to swim;
she dipped the untamed animals of our little bodies into the water
in chlorine baptism
and said, kick.
We would make boats with our backs,
struggling to stay afloat like a pair of parentheses,
laughter multiplying against the tin can walls of the local YMCA:
a war of sound more violent than before.
What remains of the dreams
a wet head dreams?
The palimpsest of poorly painted fingernails;
or purple fingertip hip bruises; or maybe
Velcro straps on a backpack and a pillow fort for dirty feet.
At the heart of the world, our fingers have joined,
and we are kicking.
Together, our bodies make one big boat;
together, nonetheless, we are fashioning and making firm.
Planting Cantaloupes
Crouched, I listen to my knees.
I wonder which great-grandmother in which field it was
who gave me this flat-footed squat.
We are connected at the hip flexors and at the fingernails,
where clotted earth finds home.
I, too, want to live inside my fingertips
when I touch you.
Bone beneath blister beneath bandage—
beneath myself I am swollen and sour,
tender with the virgin sting of trespass.
Sometimes root is like bone;
inside of you, my serrated head demands
room for growth.
Abigail Swoboda is a queer, nonbinary writer based in Philadelphia, PA, where they live with two roommates, one cat, and Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. You can find them on their website abigailswoboda.com or on Twitter @orbigail or Instagram @honeymoonbeam.
Elise Rothenhoefer is a visual artist, animal lover, and justice advocate. She manages a graphic design business, Magic Bean Designs. Elise lives in the wilds of Southern Florida with her husband, 3 children, 4 cats, 2 dogs, 1 pig, 3 hermit crabs and 1 tortoise.