Noah’s Wife My hair grizzled, face chiseled with the years of your absence, all traces of my femininity erased while you fiddled in the garage, following God knows whose orders and specifications. I mean, cubits, Noah? Cubits? When we were young, you showered me with rosebuds, soft petals caressing skin uncreased. Now, the wrinkles are etched in, and you draw sketches now. Count cows and other animals. Two of everything must go. The only pair that won’t be there as a set of two? Me. And you. Trystan Popish Trystan Popish (she/her/hers) is a disabled American poet. In her work, Trystan plays with sound and unexpected internal rhymes, bringing a sonic levity to explorations of mental health, disability, family trauma, grief, and survival. Her work appears in Open Minds Quarterly, Santa Fe Writers Project Quarterly, and Twenty Bellows.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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November 2023
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