L.E. Boxley

MY BODY MY HOME

(tw: mention of rape)

Self love thy name is bathtub naps at 6 am to break the fever
thy name is shaving my legs for nobody but my own hands
thy name is depending on my mothering of myself
thy name is a load of laundry every 8 hours
if that’s what you need, dear
the fever did break,
my wet hair fans over my shoulders.

At night I steel myself
leave the big blanket spread beside my bed
in case I have to curl up like a dog on the floor again, this happens
and I still love you.

from the couch to bed to couch to floor
I bring my parade of accoutrements
thermometer, blankets, water, rattling orange bottles, two changes of clothes
the clean laundry smells like ammonia and vinegar in the washer
I know this is
just the way my mouth tastes, now.

it is easier to count the things lost this year
but today I stop on
the mess of my coffee table
and I am so joyous for it
for the little piles of life lived all around our narrow apartment
the half-finished homework, the half-eaten cliff bar
the bag of junk cleaned out of the car, the kitchen table of
clean clothes, folded by my friend and his wife after
they gave my girl a bath when I had to work late
I paid them in mushrooms and kisses on their cheeks
left them a bag beside the polaroids and vining plants above the kitchen sink
what a home I have made, despite

what a home I have made in this body
ill as it is
it is my own
though so many have tried
to make
this body what it isn’t
what’s expected
what was assigned
what is for the good of the country
what is for your own good, my dear,
my body,
my body
has taken its lumps
has taken the bruises and rapes and
sour grapes of womanhood
of human-being
of queer self-loathing
of childbirth
of labor and labor and labor for the bourgeoisie
Now I rest my feet, I wrest the aches through my calves
anoint them in oil, drape myself in soft cotton

I celebrate the time I am given
the kindness of my friends
the goodness of my bright and messy home
the wildness of my daughter
the choice to make
my body
my own

 

BELLY ROT

(tw: miscarriage, death)


maybe it’s just bubbles in my intestines
I resign myself not to say good morning

am suddenly saying goodnight
too heavy, it pulls -

my feet are clumsy with it
my hands are lousy with it

I don’t determine either way
only let it pull me

only feel the injuries seep
feel space fill with anger

push death away until
it presents itself, certain.

Something has gone wrong
the fetus rots in my belly

amniotic fluid has curdled
churns, sours, toxins rush

I drink smooth coffee. Go about my day
leave him over and over again in my head

do not get angry
do not feel spiteful

I make peace
it is my only option

it is my only setting
peace

peace
I allow nothing to touch the rot
peace

peace
eat up the molding placenta

belly mould of plaster and lace
lilac and blue

you can’t know
this is your peace

it goes, it passes, or it doesn’t
I will blame the rain

the storm clouds
I will blame the drinking and the smoking

and the eating and the sleeping
sleeping, sleeping, sleeping

I don’t keep my eyes open
I can’t stand

I can’t stand it
belly rot

poison piss
prison gills

it all counts
don’t read me

don’t watch my face
I’m going back to sleep.

ANOTHER ONE ABOUT BELLIES

It is
a certain kind of hungry
studying the menu for a new job
with empty cabinets
I am reading about chicken fried in duck fat
the greens and seeds and morsels of its bed
a loud growl comes out of my throat
from my stomach being eaten by its own acid
and whose fault is that
it also says
or maybe that’s my sister’s voice in the back of my head
or my ex’s child support check
that I just can’t seem to stretch hard enough
to wring out the grocery money this week
and whose fault is that
ok
I tidy the papers and eat sleep for a midnight snack
maybe that will be better for the nightmares
the panic I’ve been waking up to
maybe I will go to the grocery store in the morning
with the fifty stuck in my sock drawer for emergencies
maybe I will stop pitying myself

I failed chemistry, you know
it was first in the morning
after I’d get high at the bus stop
so I can’t remember if the teacher said anything about
how well acid and water mix but
I’d say they don’t get on
only based on how I’ve tried and tried
to fill my belly with big mason jars of water
(everyone on tik tok and instagram says
drinking a lot of water is really quite good for you and
see, it’s free)

ah, alas
my stomach asks for bread
and my skin isn’t any healthier
and my hair dies on the root
and everyone on tiktok and instagram says
not washing your hair every day is good for your hair
makes it healthy, see
so I go three days between washes
and well, it’s only turned limp and tangled
I’m not sure why I try to trust these things
maybe the secret is washing your hair
as often as your scalp needs a good pat and a hearty scrub
and buying cheap rolls off the clearance rack
to eat at night with a coffee and a shitty TV show

I’m just not convinced
that someone out there just ‘has it right’
I think we’ve all got it wrong and
are looking for someone who doesn’t
‘n
I think that makes us just get smaller
‘n further away from figuring out
how to listen to our bellies
and our achey shoulders
why haven’t you asked for help
now it says
I say how about
I buy the loaf in the morning, alright?
alright.

L.E. Boxley (she/they) is a poet from Southern New Mexico who writes weird conversations to their readers and all the soft parts of themself they can dig up. They co-run a writer's guild based in Colorado and live with their daughter, who is the coolest thing they've ever made.

Photo: Vincent-Natasha Gay of Mx. Gay Photography