Emily Alston-Follansbee

ANATOMY

I found comfort in flannel,
the soft rub between my frightened fingers.
I held a mass of dread in my belly.

nausea
from
my
neck
to
my
root

Outside the big-fingered maple leaves hung,
stoic, never saying a word.
I didn't know then
that there were words
for hiding in my steep-ceiling bedroom,
the deep red-to-black cave
of the fireplace
menacing me
with an invisible warm breath
that knew me, somehow.

I created a private spot inside the closet;
I brought in a little brown braided rug
and a crooked old rusty lamp.

I sat cross-legged and disjointed,
unable to release my legs, clenched,
as if I could close myself off like a switch.

One day I would look outside and imagine
a one-handed cartwheel on the front lawn,
all of my weight in that one palm.

I would tumble into a better place
and the vagaries of my story
would be like old faded tattoos

on the tender soles of my feet.

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