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2 Poems by Stevie Belchak

I AM NOT THE WOMAN YOU THINK I AM
inside I am 
 
growing out 
 
a double-wide
 
seahorse
 
actually
 
I am growing 
 
a trap door 
 
worthy 
 
of woodland 
 
creatures
 
of course
 
my womb
 
is a carpeted 
 
with pine 
 
needles
 
the women
 
keep asking me
 
for interior 
 
cutouts
 
the same women 
 
who ask
 
how I have been 
 
doing
 
as a statistic 
 
trying to find 
 
her natural
 
starting point
 
a geologic mass
 
eager to 
 
finger
 
another person’s
 
glove compartment  
 
the point is 
 
I have been
 
as busy
 
as a straight line
 
composing
 
four examples
 
of forward       
 
I have been 
 
whisking
 
trans fat in isolation 
 
censoring my 
 
bleed outs
 
because I keep bleeding 
 
out prosaically
 
I keep  
 
it up 
 
the bleeding
 
every twenty-five
 
minutes
 
because I want to prove
 
I too
 
have stamnina 
 
in the morning 
 
in the great
 
dulled rib 
 
of tomorrow 
 
there 
 
is a thought 
 
that maybe
 
I could be
 
a fantastic plot 
 
twist
 
the sheer
 
possibility
 
pulls me out
 
of the shape 
 
of a tear drop 
 
I’ve been making 
 
my body
 
into 
 
and walk 
 
like I am walking 
 
past 
 
the boarded-up
 
J.C. Penny 
 
the pylons lodged
 
like rotting 
 
teeth 
 
in the  river
 
some
 
nuanced angles  
 
of light 
 
that break
 
my heart open 
 
a little
 
like an egg
 
what is the point 
 
of shattering
 
into this
 
outdated language
 
when you can look 
 
just as good
 
in a party dress
 
blooming
 
sorrowfully
 
from a ruffled 
 
bottom 
 
is it wrong 
 
to commemorate
 
the season
 
with your debutante 
 
mouth
 
and its conglomerate 
 
of water
 
my own 
 
mouth
 
is dripping 
 
with another
 
company’s profits
 
and I feel 
 
a little like 
 
soft 
 
beige
 
sometimes
 
in a great moon 
 
and after a
 
long while 
 
there comes a moment
 
and it feels 
 
magnificent
 
because of 
 
the cortisol  
 
and because I am 
 
a pubic bone
 
moving so fast
 
over 
 
a furlong 
 
of mattress
 
I can tell 
 
then
 
I am 
 
going 
 
extinct
 
all at once
 
am a point
 
hopeless
 
ly caressing  
 
the butcher knife
 
left 
 
for the intruders
 
under your 
 
pillow
 
I listen 
 
hold sound

at a kind
 
of distance
 
from my body 
 
waiting
 
for 
 
midday summer
 
to open
 
with the mimosa
 
tree’s
 
pink silk and 
 
melancholy
 
pop music
 
it comes but is 
 
a little 
 
too late
 
and I am 
 
blurred
 
in the window
 
like a presiding
 
Royal
 
I am  
 
her and
 
her 
 
eyes 
 
are
 
impenetrably deep
 
and yet
 
somehow
 
not
 
even 

THIS IS WHAT I MEAN WHEN I SAY I CAN’T EAT, OR IN THE ABSENCE OF FOOD
 
I have been picking

with average 

difficulty 


at my fillings 


the chromatic 


wells shining 


deep 


in my mouth 


my tongue


like a small


offering 


to their softer 


alabaster 


to my fervent


body and its 


$6,000 

deductible

it is only 


the astonishing


tonality 


of living 


Aristotle said


Knowing yourself 


is the beginning 


of all wisdom


and I think 


I know 


what fills me 


exactly


how I gather 


in lurid 


details 


grow out


of permissible


folds


and how 


fuck 


I forgot


and laid down


again


after botox


so tired 


I burrowed the lyric


of my hair 


into a shoal 


of memory 


foam  


someone 


I work with 


said was 


conscientious 


design


I agree


I am 


conscious 


of nothing 


except fumbled vanity


the tether 


of my pain


wildly googling


ovary 


twinge


while rubbing


my tired scales


as if they were not


already rough


stones


full of blood 


and knowing 


full well


that if 


I am anything 


I am persistent


ly


the trembling film


of hunger


it sucks


to think


I could have 


one day


been taken 


somewhat


seriously


as a poet 


had gotten 


good  


at believing 


there is 


compounding interest


in my tired 


ridges


the words where


I become one


with fear


of the horses


so many women 


write about


their gigantic 


beating 


hearts 


and sticking


gleaming orange 


carrot fingers 


into great 


open 


sores


without panic 


it’s like 


we were expected 


as girls


to have grown 


our hair 


out long 


like hay


sucked our teeth 


into ugly 


protrusions 


I think it’s time


to be honest


which is 


the unwieldy attempt


at iterating 


on things both true 


and present 


and presently


I have 


a soft 


white ceramic cup  


of black coffee


and my 


indignant 


typing


a triage 


of thoughts


like a struggle


for vastness


like a big 


timpani 


of wanting 


to live 


without 


an extensive search 


history

of the phrase

“how long 


before 


your heart gives out


from starving” 


and yet I am still 


seeing 


deeply


my body as an 


archive 


of corrosion


the area 


of my armpit 


as a great


lake 


of cancer


in truth 


my cells keep 


turning guiltily


over 


and I cannot pattern 


the geography


correctly


can only hold


a baby lantern 


to my 


teeth


trying


desperately


to tell you 


something of 


substance


of death 


masks 


and child


birth


and everything 


that is 


everything


that is infinitely


weird


how hard


I’ve been 


laboring


to detonate


song


while algorithms 


work for 


others’ 


money


like stars


work themselves


from a cagey


violet of sky 


it hurts


to know the 


world is getting


richer 


when I have been 


family planning


for hunger


storing 


and storing


for my great 


intermittence


while searching 


the web


for a willow


what it 


can mean


​to weep 
​
Stevie Belchak is a writer and poet living in Key West, FL. Her chapbook 'State of My Undress' was published via o-blek editions in 2022, and her nonfiction and poetry can be found published in Third Coast, Blush Lit, Feelings, Peach, Pinwheel Journal, Dream Pop Press--among many others.
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