by Amanda Stovicek
There are things in me growing
like pond scum. All layers of earth
sloughing into mud and bird shit,
all microbiotic collisions braiding
against my skin. I want to accumulate
on river banks. I open my eyes in the river
and see its murk as my own particulate.
My body is a carbon cycle. My body
clings to its edges. Water surrounds me.
I am knuckle and elbow, corners I cannot let go of.
There’s something about the noise
of water, the man-made exodus
of river life that foams on these concrete slabs
like a great mouth.
Amanda Stovicek is a writer and teaching artist from Northeast Ohio. She is preoccupied with star formation and writing that resists. Her work has appeared in Us For President, Rubbertop Review, Jenny Magazine, and is forthcoming in The New Old Stock.