persian silk

By Monica Barrett

somewhere on west 4th i collapsed 

i woke up with my cheek reddened 

from hot asphalt because july in new york 

is no place for a girl who won’t eat

and what a relief it was to know 

i wasn’t the only one who had dreamt 

of contracting some deadly disease, 

not deadly enough to kill me, just enough 

to whittle myself down to almost nothing

i’m so sorry that you have to have a body. 

my body is the thing i need to escape, the 

reason i can’t be won’t be loved, the reason 

you couldn’t want me. isn’t that what you 

meant, after all?

instead, i’d like to be the tree my mother 

loves so much. persian silk, it’s called.

i’d like to be a home for cicadas, a resting spot 

for bumblebees. i’d like to look down at myself,

resting in my own shade, to be the thing that

brings me solace. i’d like to be something 

miraculous in spring.

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Monica Barrett (she/her) is a poet from Las Vegas. She lives in Brooklyn.