Poems from Megan Sheil
Sometimes I feel about my body
the way meat must feel about
sausage casings. Too many
circles forced inside squares,
too many curves held...
Do you think the moon cries
for every star that dies?
I wonder how her tears taste:
if they’re hollow with memories,
or heavy with loss...
I used to live in a world
of freshly squeezed laundry,
Himalayan pink salt on Atlantic salmon,
and thermostatic, triple jet showers.
But...
#MeToo
for every time her hair wrapped my fingers,
and her body hugged the cold rim of the toilet,
because you decided
she wasn’t drunk...
Our bodies are a kaleidoscope,
limbs entangled in damp silk,
hearts pulsing to the drum of now,
yesterday, today,
tomorrow.
“You’re so...