Aimee Lowenstern
Soupsong
Oh no. Oh no. I am me.
I am me within this dough-dense body,
and I can feel time thickening around me
in a clear and humid broth.
It’s boiling this made-up meatsoul,
my soft and ghostpearl intricacies
melting into grease.
I watch everything I have ever done
cook down down down into nothing,
though their flavors grow stronger
and stronger in the stuttering pot.
By the scent of me now, I am sure
I am rotten. There is no hunger I could sate.
When they open me up
with their forks, they will find
the strange texture of my pinkpoached brain;
their lips will curl back
in disgust.
I am me within this dough-dense body,
and I can feel time thickening around me
in a clear and humid broth.
It’s boiling this made-up meatsoul,
my soft and ghostpearl intricacies
melting into grease.
I watch everything I have ever done
cook down down down into nothing,
though their flavors grow stronger
and stronger in the stuttering pot.
By the scent of me now, I am sure
I am rotten. There is no hunger I could sate.
When they open me up
with their forks, they will find
the strange texture of my pinkpoached brain;
their lips will curl back
in disgust.
Storage Room
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I’ll hide your heart in my stomach so no one can get it.
Come on, cough it up. All slick and wet like fruit.
I’ll pop it like a pill. Drink it down with hot chocolate.
Every day I swallow feelings the size of fists,
or very large mice. I can take it whole.
Don’t carve yourself up for my sake.
Don’t size your bites. Once I’m done,
you won’t have to worry about survival anymore,
or being loved. I’ve got it all taken care of.
I’m singing with a thousand pulses
and none of them will ever flicker out.
I’m shaking? I’m dancing. I’ve got a tummy full of souls
and they’re all doing the cha cha slide.
No, it’s not an anxiety attack. Yes, you’ll keep everything
in the divorce. Your body. My body (Your summer vacation home).
Your mind and my poems and the dog. Take out my teeth
and leave them like broken-down furniture on the streetside.
Who needs ‘em? More room in my mouth
to choke down symbolic organs. My whole self spasms with blood.
Come on, cough it up. All slick and wet like fruit.
I’ll pop it like a pill. Drink it down with hot chocolate.
Every day I swallow feelings the size of fists,
or very large mice. I can take it whole.
Don’t carve yourself up for my sake.
Don’t size your bites. Once I’m done,
you won’t have to worry about survival anymore,
or being loved. I’ve got it all taken care of.
I’m singing with a thousand pulses
and none of them will ever flicker out.
I’m shaking? I’m dancing. I’ve got a tummy full of souls
and they’re all doing the cha cha slide.
No, it’s not an anxiety attack. Yes, you’ll keep everything
in the divorce. Your body. My body (Your summer vacation home).
Your mind and my poems and the dog. Take out my teeth
and leave them like broken-down furniture on the streetside.
Who needs ‘em? More room in my mouth
to choke down symbolic organs. My whole self spasms with blood.
Aimee Lowenstern is a twenty-three-year-old poet living in Nevada. She has cerebral palsy and is fond of glitter. Her work can be found in several literary journals including Lunch Ticket and the Hoxie Gorge Review.