wrapped around my torso to cinch in my layers of fat. I pulled
apart all that made me whole, like relationships, caloric intake.
I dissected sandwiches in cafés until I could do no more than coil
along river sands like bundles of fish corpses. What more
than plurality is needed to feel impregnated as an invisible
mother. My mother has never been invisible, which used
to irritate me but for this today I am feeling quite grateful.
Therapist tells me to lessen my grip on my resentments.
To throw into the wild the lovers who have harmed me.
To let the wolves do away with their carcasses. Therapist
did not tell me this but my English teachers always told
me that I was excellent at inferring subtleties. English teachers
did not tell me this either. Instead I was told to use less parentheses,
to introduce my thoughts as whole, undivided little children. My
regret is that I am 25 & have no children, nobody to wed. My regret
is that I am still sitting in some damned café, throating my coffees,
all cream, & doing away with the croissants. In other news maybe
on this morning I am vegan & tomorrow I am eating butter
by the spoonful, my jaw so wide & so cruel. If a therapist
could give me anything it would be a list of concrete ways to do away
with the shame that comes when the night rolls around, terrified
& chilled. I mean to paint. Or to seek worship like climbing
the stairmaster that sits, alone & dusty, in the corner of my room.
about folk songs. Probably
boring. But also this is what
I mean by blessing. I feel
exposed when I sit out on
my front porch like a carpenter.
Jesus I think was his name,
or no I know, I know
of names like I know of proper
diets. I don’t even know growth
when she walks into my apartment
but she is there, somewhere,
listening in the style of a younger
sister. I drove a long long time
to where buildings ceased to exist
& glossy lakes stretched on, their
fish asleep at midnight. Somebody
must follow in the footsteps
of the unknown messiah. It will
not be me but a friend who speaks
through God like a butterfly.
Know that when I read my friend’s
journal it is only because I am trying
to feel closer to the linguistics
of secrets: how they are consumed
like beetles; how they carry themselves
weighted as carcasses; how they love
in states of fatigue. I am in love
with no face, but were somebody
to share with me their confessions
I would recognize more properly
the ways in which these folk singers
play with streams of light; paths
& paths of dust; the miniscule threads
of succulent laughter, bringing to mind
the type of joy felt seemingly
only at baseball games, or during a large
civil war that will, with great hope,
one day fade away into liquid
blue distance like a strange poison.
Loisa Fenichell work has been featured or is forthcoming in Small Orange Journal, Poetry Northwest, Guernica Magazine, Tupelo Quarterly, and elsewhere. Her debut collection, all these urban fields, was published by nothing to say press. She is an MFA candidate at Saint Mary’s College of California and currently lives in Oakland, CA. .