I woke up afraid I’d bled through the skin of my body. The furniture wept at the sight of all that blood. Breakfast: egg, berries bloodied, thawed. The egg softened into an eye. It spit pits & pieces. It held itself above its melt like a head. To go under again would be to drown, to become eye-less like pearls, a mattress, a womb. It’s hard to eat everything at once. lt’s hard to pull sheets tight under a body that shifts & turns bloodless.
Surfacing
Stefanie Kirby
Feature Date
- July 23, 2024
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Copyright © 2024 by Stefanie Kirby.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
Stefanie Kirby lives and writes along Colorado’s Front Range. Her debut, Fruitful (Driftwood, 2024), is the winner of the 2023 Adrift Chapbook Contest. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Best of the Net Anthology 2024, Pleiades, phoebe, The Massachusetts Review, The Maine Review, The Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere.
105
Lewisburg, Pennsylvania
Stadler Center for Poetry
Bucknell University
Editor
G. C. Waldrep
Managing Editor
Andrew Ciotola
Editor-at-Large
Shara Lessley
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