by Sophia Smith
A mangled row of bones stacks up from your hips
and into your skull, hidden
behind layers of skin and muscle,
behind layers of skin and muscle,
those calcium shells twist and turn
like the skyline of a soft crested
like the skyline of a soft crested
hill, make the arch of your waist drift
against the axis, a harsh
against the axis, a harsh
25 degrees to the right;
it’s the length of a snake
it’s the length of a snake
inching up your spine, a knife
tracing up your back, threatening
tracing up your back, threatening
to divide
thoracic flesh, peel back muscles
thoracic flesh, peel back muscles
and tendons to dig through
clots of rawness and hammer
clots of rawness and hammer
plates and screws into your silky insides. Metal
parasites gnaw
parasites gnaw
their way through, a slice
of yourself wedged between
of yourself wedged between
the vertebrae, the clash of
steel and skeleton. It makes you kiss the cage wrapped
steel and skeleton. It makes you kiss the cage wrapped
around your waist and wear it
as a second skin, recoiling
as a second skin, recoiling
at the pinch while seeking
its warmth, to hate
its warmth, to hate
something but know you need it.
Sophia P. Smith has loved to write since her earliest memories and is now pursuing a minor in creative writing at Salisbury University. Her work has also been published in Third Wednesday Magazine.
Hawaii Pacific Review 