My hair grizzled, face
chiseled with the years
of your absence,
all traces of my femininity erased
while you fiddled in the garage,
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?
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.
The Ekphrastic Review
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