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In a room the size of a tennis ball,

I turn off the light. Feeling brave,


I stare into night’s swath. My inability

to whistle knows me best, my inability


to convince a hundred men

to love me. Morning frightens


me even more than the sun’s

giant disappearance. I try to be good.


I drink my water. I run my laps. I grow

my nakedness. A fan is turned on.


I am cold and, though not covered

in water, feel damp. Somebody walks


through the bedroom door – your body

enters, naked as my own. I wish


I could say this startles me, but I still know

your body too well. Every dusk, I find


myself burrowing beneath my blanket,

envisioning your hands


around the jarring craters

of my abdomen. This is not the life


I want. Sitting at my desk, eyeing

the unforgiving peak of womanhood,


my hands fold into themselves

like a choir. I still try to be good.


I picture your chest against my own

and blot out the image with some rain.


I advocate for my own disappearance –

like rain, I am only rain.

Loisa Fenichell's work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and has been featured or is forthcoming in Guernica Magazine, Tupelo Quarterly, Narrative Magazine, Washington Square Review, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, "all these urban fields," was published by nothing to say press and her collection, "Wandering in all directions of this earth," is a Tupelo Press Berkshire Prize 2021 finalist. She has been the recipient of an award from Bread Loaf Writers' Workshop and a finalist for the 2021 Narrative Magazine 30 Below contest. She is currently an MFA candidate at Columbia University and lives in Brooklyn, NY.

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