fat girl nicks herself shaving in the shower,
resents the water that will carry her
blood to sea. Blood, worthless currency,
cannot buy a country but becomes it,
platelets stitching into streets. fat girl weeps
for the blood that won’t return—
how many mothers have tried
such a homecoming, sons and daughters
inking the tarry streets? fat girl becomes
a mother through her looking, has seen
too many children mangled by a sense
of justice. She carries somebody’s child
in the crater their deaths create
inside her—if she could just reach deep
enough, if she could piecemeal her own
plump, how many layers would it take
to make a bulletproof lung? fat girl mourns
the blood muling a persistent path
through the drainpipes. If blood must be
taken, let there be coral glittering
like gemstones at their feet, dolphins pitching
foam in arcs out from the sea. Let there be air
enough. fat girl could be a mother, fretting
the impossible journey of her blood.

 
To celebrate National Poetry Month we are again presenting an April Celebration: 30 Poets/30 Presses (#ArmchairBookFair21), a feature we initiated last year to help promote new releases whose publicity opportunities were thwarted due to the pandemic. Please join us every day for new poetry from the presses that sustain us.