Sarah Neal McCurry, Speak So It Anchors You
You know who you are but do you / think of me every time you pull the carving knife / from its eyelid slit in the block, evening light / dancing on its blade
New poems of strength and vulnerability from Sarah Neal McCurry, from “Twenty Questions” to “The way a starving body will eat its own” to “What on earth: the shortest autobiography.”
Negotiation on being
On your star sheets you squeeze
every muscle together, zip self
up from the ankles. Ceiling’s most perfect
light-tit glows, you are water
and air-proof until you sneeze.
Undissolving is against it―
a travel-in-reverse through
the up-current of a stare
bending a spoon. Undertow
your self, then speak
so it anchors you.