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.