for SBThis is the most you’ve ever beena child. Once there was sand,thick saltwater paste on legscapable of anything; then, lateryour body inside a lanternwaiting for claps of resurrection—what happens is yellow, an armfulof swords pressed into your embracebut no blood, only sprinting, bladeslike chopsticks then sheathedin your throat & this is also hungera goblet of dirt & flowers.But think of that beach again. You know the one,you’ve been there so many times. Thinkof pomegranates instead of rocks & a sea monster(any kind you’d like) who will love youbetter than a lighthouse, love your toesresting in its muddy grey sandas the water breathes with endless indecisionthe in & out of tongue(after all just another muscle)I would strip every branch clean, handswrapped like a hilt, buzzed fingers learningthe small fur of a bee, just asking for sting,honey sugared between bricks.Are you in the snow right now, this very second?Somewhere there’s a city of seals &somewhere I am slipping insideanother’s heavy rubber skin, changingmy feet, swallowing gulps of well-waterthat taste like you. Like my eyesweighed down with penniesfrom the year I was born, & a yearthat hasn’t happened yet.
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About the writer
Elizabeth Theriot. Elizabeth Theriot grew up in Louisiana and earned her undergraduate degree from University of New Orleans. She currently lives in Tuscaloosa, where she is an MFA candidate at the University of Alabama. Elizabeth works with the Black Warrior Review as an assistant editor in poetry and non-fiction, and teaches freshman composition. Her publications can be found online in Tinderbox, Requited, Pretty Owl, and Alyss, and in print in the Mississippi Review.
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