by Lauren Licona

the house of me was almost set on fire / again / the curved elm of my spine / the timber of my legs / hips, all flanked and cedar / how long have i spent / trying to make a home / of myself? / only for someone to mistake the glow in my window / for an act of arson / and the whole of me / for a wick / that is to say / is it too much to ask / to be warm in this body / without the expectation of burning? / and of course/ there are days i want to tear myself down with my own hands / and there are days / i forget that my body is more / than something that occupies space / is more / than a space to occupy / there are days my body forgets / how to be / a body / there are days / i wake to eviction notice on my skin / or catch a glimpse of myself in the gaze of this stranger / and see nothing but a harth / something small and finite and warm enough to use / until the blood is pumping / and my kindles are put out /

it’s days like this / i carry the tired body home / deconstruct the idea of girl as harth/ i rinse abstraction from her mouth / reach for hemlines and strip her of all metaphors / i stare / at the dimples pressed into the sacrum of her back / at her uneven legs / and the scattered borders of the birthmark on her thigh / hips full and uncracked / hands that hold and feed and love, anyway / i remind myself / THIS BODY / IS MINE / and it’s strange that this is a revolutionary act / after all / my lungs knew the ridges of my sternum / before they knew the word for “air” / and it’s hard to believe / that after two decades of breathing / i am finally saying / THIS BODY / IS MINE / THIS BODY/ IS MINE aloud