“my sisters found me strewn across the shoreline”

poetry by c. corvidae

contents

1. this page
2. “the mattress electric”
3. "omnipotent shadow people tango"
4. “knowing wink from distant planet… iron lung dreams of smoke”
5. “gag reflects"
6. “spark walk” / “twelve dollars and a firm handshake” / “interrogate me”
7. “a lamb stands up on 45th street” / “meet & part &” / “poem for a video I saw online”
8. “pulp maiden”
9. “the precentor leads a prayer”
10. “i’m showing you the art that’s been made about me”
11. “maternity ward in purgatory”
12. “toilet bowl epithalamium”
13. "paper petal tumor girl"
14. acknoweldgments
 “the mattress electric”

i squirm on my floor at 10:00pm.

it’s a ritual.
i’m pus and gore,
i salivate all over my own
wounds. i’m despicable and
finally nonsexual and arrogant,
and a sight for sore
eyes, and alive, and
crying!:

this is my new
body, this is my
new body, this is
my new body

i pollinate, i germinate
i make a mess of myself and
yet, pure and endless,
i exercise and take note of my form
shifting, subtly~

(watching a movie with tears in my eyes

for the first time)

(feeding on your tongue,

recklessly, for the last)

i can’t claim your hardship,

but i put forth my own for consumption.
return it when
finished. it’s cruel,
it’s pleasing,
it’s all i know.

my pills are incredible.

i relish in watching my old self die,
in seeing my new self vomit forth from
my rasping throat.

like finding your best friend,

your long-lost sister,
and it’s you,
it was you the whole time,
she’s not dead,
she breathes through your lungs
and rattles against your ribs
and celebrates and hollers in your brain as she

discovers you, traverses you,

loves you to death
 "omnipotent shadow people tango"

if i go to Hell for entertaining my voyeurs

please tell them i ascended, instead

i’ll strut n shimmy n

caress myself
for these people
all night long;
i want them to know
that my veins glow
brighter than ever, now.
i don't want them to see me immolated--

i want them to see the show

i mean,
if they’re watching regardless…
i’d rather them see my mouth
contorted into a sickening grin
than biting the sidewalk.

i'd been hoping they might chase the skin i shed

across a continent or two.

but somehow,
their eyes are keen--
i look more like myself than
ever before,
but i still resemble my outdated shell
juuuuust enough for them to still know me.

("know")

so while you're here,

watch me writhe,
watch me
writhe!
watch me writhe,
watch! me!
writhe!

and i'll decorate my antlers

with tinsel and lights,
i'll keep shaking, and laughing,
and i'll keep eating, and
i'll keep
burning
 "knowing wink from distant planet... iron lung dreams of smoke"

sleepwalking with The Lord.

getting rid of the aroma of
banished children of my ego
lust for blindness
rusted kindness
gate creak open
and thus: enter, spirit.

a queer feeling erupts,

an emergence of grace,
a rupture of forgiveness,
overflowing, bursting at
the seams with
(the light) (delight)
trembling appendages brace for impact
terrible, terrible balance…

i will revise my shape

like a reverse burial --> folding, spinning inward.
scrape my hands and '
scrap my plans,
i've got dysmorphia on the brain.
i've got dysmorphia in the stomach.
i've got dysmorphia forming in the mouth.
a concoction of saliva, acidic,
brewed on the tip of my tongue
and spewed, spewed,
spewed groundward.

<savage offering of sickness>

<saintly offering of sadness>
<i am the woman in the painting>
<i am the feather, the hair, the leaf>

there's much to absorb, and none to leave behind.

gently rediscovering what it means to
lose function: may my chest
heave and my bowels
churn forevermore.

i stare at the scrapes.

(a useless exercise.)
put an axe to the urge, before
the urge axes me.

i’m scrounging for scraps.

(a toothless bark and bite.)
put an axe to the urge, before
the urge purges me.
 "gag reflects"

a minuscule burnt-out forest fairy,

the last of her kind, now mere
guts and bone paste rubbed
between your left thumb
and forefinger;

a delicate wing,
still stuck in your gritted teeth,
flapping gently as you hiss your
favorite new words, the ones
you poached from their native lands;

a purple-and-yellow squeaking sound,

creaking out into the air surrounding
you, but as you awkwardly bellow your
dinner table Lord's Prayer, of course,
you devil, you've drowned it out entirely;

an earthy aroma,
strong enough to sew flesh shut
and unshatter bones and ungather
coils of prickly memories piled high,
overpowered by cheap cologone;

a hastily-fading little spirit wisp,

she's left this godworld completely,
she's evaporated like tea steam,
she's moved on into oblivienne itself,
and you are wholly nonplussed;

a power line full of hot, throbbing vengeance,

wrapped around the necks of
everyone you ever said you loved...
we've been scared of you
for longer than we've known you,

and we watch your compassion unfurl,

and we try our best to unvomit,
to unremember the pulp and sinew,
to push away the knowledge that
any and all of us are next, next, next;
 "spark walk"

i'm eating all your envelopes:

the adhesive occupies my belly
and constricts my insides
tighter, tighter,
learning fright.
i will lose what i thought was me,
and not replace it with anything.
but i'll be lithe and sprightly,
and that will be enough
to get me home tonight.

and i will appear to you

so waifish, so precious and kind.
tell me i’m not on your mind.

“twelve dollars and a firm handshake”

gravel embeds in skin

just as sin specks my shell &
freckles up my dingy face.
but i am finished with singing
“my demise, my demise.”

whichever cosmic surprise is

yanking my strings:

i thank thee, but it is time

for me to cut loose--
i look forward
to our meeeting
but now is not
the right opportunity.

there is so much screaming left to do!

“interrogate me”

details
enhanced, and then
destroyed by scrutiny.
a body does what a mirror wants;
blooms, wilts.
 “a lamb stands up on 45th street”

i want animals to take over my terrain 30 years after my nuclear meltdown : i want plants to grow in spite of themselves : i
want the ukrainian government to construct a massive protective shield and move it slowly into place around me so my
radioactivity does not spread further into the environment \\\ i have been blamed for thousands of deaths and birth defects so
please ensure the safety of my exclusion zone and prepare to dismantle me, i will find love in every fragment that falls

“meet & part &”

hello body goodbye body

tower of bibles
spelling mistakes in exam questions
large red exclamation mark

find a plant and kill it

reptile eyes
depletion of resources
no one says that name anymore

curled up dead spider

is she coming home
her mother wants to see her
yellow moon goodnight moon
//\\//\o/\\//\\

“poem for a video i saw online”

water snake climbs out of pond

slides up pant leg into man’s lap
to indulge in offering of fish

water snake, skin like golf ball

and pleasantly chilly to
touch

it reminds of nights spent in bed

shivering and smiling
and picking at fingernails

water snake snaps mighty

jaws down upon dying fish
and weaves back into lake

then, submerges and nobody

ever sees it again for the rest of
its life
 “pulp maiden”

i keep cutting my hands and fingers

on these corrugated cardboard boxes at work.
they’re surprisingly sharp.

i pretend that i don’t like it.

i feign the notion that i never pine for the feeling
of my blood on the outside of my skin.

i tell everyone who loves me that i’m recovering

but as long as i’m getting into these minuscule workplace accidents,
i don’t know if i can genuinely claim that.

in my best-laid plans, i’m fixing the broken machinery

of my body and mind, and uncovering the
fossilized affection i could finally have for the

people close to me. i want to be dancing,

swaying my hips with my sisters-- but i fear that in reality,
all i’m doing is replacing the old scars with

fresh ones. i seethe at the counter.

demure, with welled-up tears in my eyes.
i have mastered this silent squirming;

in looks,
in breaths, in
tiny twitches.

in the way i choke out these thank-yous to customers.

weakly spitting the words onto the counter
like peach pits
 “the precentor leads a prayer”

faulty components,
wired hastily,
are the bane of our machinist.

place. re-place. adjust.

she pours her heart into the bridgework,

with tiny eyes darting back and forth,
round and white in her skull like spider eggs.

a creature plants
its talons in the firmament.

--and it is so. a hulking monolith

emerges from the aether of creation.

our valued machinist has

birthed her radio transmitter unto
this void.

she cracks her knuckles.

she gets in range.
she broadcasts her plans

that skip across the

surface of
my
brain

like a stone,
thrown
with Godless precision.
 “i’m showing you the art that’s been made about me”

here’s an 18x24" painting of me holding a bouquet of lilies that have just recently been pulled from the ground. dirt is
still clinging to their roots. i'm smiling-- no, i'm absolutely beaming. i look as if i've never been so happy in my entire life. the
aftermath of a tear remains on my left cheek in a wet streak. i'm wearing a yellow sun dress with floral print, and "cat-eye"
eyeliner that is slightly smudged on the left side. both my hands are clasped around the flowers and my face is turned slightly
upwards, a pose reminiscent of prayer. the room i'm standing in is very brown and nondescript, save for an ornate clock on
the wall behind my right shoulder. i'm not wearing my glasses, but my facial piercing is there, and i have a pair of emerald
earrings. my shoulders & cheeks are reddened from sunburn. you can't discern this by looking at the painting, but
“Gumboots” by Paul Simon is on the radio.
the medium of the painting is acrylic on canvas. the title of the painting is "I Think I Can Hear A Voice Asking Me To
Come Home". the painting is hanging in a small museum exhibit and most of the people who see it seem to have a neutral or
positive opinion of it. some of them say that the painting is quite beautiful. some of them say that the woman in the painting is
quite beautiful. a few of the people even say that viewing the painting somehow made them feel more beautiful. in a few
months' time, several other works of art in the museum will be stolen by a pair of professional art thieves. this one will remain.

now, here’s a 3.5-hour-long film of me telling all the knock-knock jokes i can think of. when i run out of knock-knock
jokes that i already know, i start making them up. they get progressively more nonsensical. when i run out of ideas, i try to
repeat all the ones i've already said, in the order that i said them. this is filmed as one continuous shot, the angle is fixed to
show my head and upper torso. from the beginning to the end of the film, a strange figure in the distance (perhaps 3-4
meters back) becomes more and more noticeable. it starts completely invisible, but the lighting changes slowly and the figure
seems to fade into existence, as do some aspects of the background (grass, weeds; clearly an outdoor setting). by the end of
the film, it is apparent that the figure in the distance is also me-- standing completely still, with eyes wide open and jaw
agape. i am clad head-to-toe in a pleasant pastel blue raincoat and boots and hat. and this far-away me is staring directly at
the back of the head of the me that has been talking for all this time. her gaze doesn’t shift.
in the last 2 minutes of the film, the me in the background suddenly lies down on the ground-- not a violent,
accidental fall, but rather a deliberate spur-of-the-moment movement. the me in the foreground hears the movement and
turns to look at what has happened, breaking eye contact with the camera for the first time. it starts snowing. the film ends.
 “maternity ward in purgatory”

let’s spin my eyeballs

not uh
not horizontally
vertically
let’s vertically spin my eyeballs
like in the cartoon
when the guy sees money

i wanna see
an image of my own brain
flash so rapidly in my vision
that it appears to be superimposed
over whatever’s in front of me

my spinning eyeballs
show me this image
of my own brain
i wanna see it forever
omnipresent
monolithic
full of wonder

let’s spin my brain too

let’s see what happens

i won’t get dizzy

i’ll just get sick
i’ve got this fried, carbonated heart
to hand off to everyone i know
i tell them to take it
in heavily slurred speech

i’ll swell up and crash down

i’ll dwell in a trash town
not much to do
besides spin
spin spin
let’s practice
let’s practice
let’s preach

i’m expecting a child

no
two children
i can see their twin giggling drooling mouths
they’ve barely just begun to breathe
and they’re bouncing in my arms
with my beautiful brain
between them
and I start batting it like a ball of yarn
 “toilet bowl epithalamium”

young doe communion in

cemetery
field. at long last, a lucky
break
in your filth-enriched walkabout.

give
the proper space she needs to
approach.
she senses your intention.
turn

grubby palm upward. close one

eye,
and you know you are
“alone”
or as “alone” as you can get. so, you see your

sickness
emerging from Gaea. your
dysphoria,
returning to Gaea. your
organs,

falling into Gaea’s seas. your

sadism,
leaving bite marks on Gaea. your
union,
failing forever in Gaea’s infidelity. your

trauma,
undone in Gaea. your
triumph,
spitting in Gaea’s face. your
recovery,

cigarettes in Gaea’s prison. your

windup,
Gaea inhales nervously. your
haymaker,
Gaea hacks up bloody teeth. your

mother
repeatedly refuses Gaea. your
father,
rests uneasy in Gaea. your
reconstitution,

asleep on the scummiest couch in the scabbed-over void of Gaea.

...fuck!
 "paper petal tumor girl"

i think i was born good

and got eviled somehow somewhere along the
way / and now my
quest is that of un-eviling
de-eviling
purify now, purify
til it's all gone som
eday

but but who am i kidding who am i kidding

(myself myself)
nobody nobody

it's never all gone, not

"now"
not "someday"
not "ever" -- it will always linger in
some form or another, my golden mistakes
staining me at my core -- AND YET I'M

watching my friends blossom forth from

underground-- i'm
witnessing the holy miracle of
my lovers unfurling like leaves-- and i'm
wrapping them around my arms and
gliding down to earth from the highest point in the entire city
and when my feet touch down,

well, i can't help but

i can't help but feel
feel the dirt coursing through me
coursing through me the way it

was always meant to.

i'm the tree growing around the fence--

bark misshapen, cancerous, bubbling outward--
ugly, rough, the clumsiest thing on stage--
magnificent, ancient, wise, the star of the show--
awarded with applause & bouquets

well,

thank-you thank-you.
smilecrying, my body says:
thank-you 100,000 times
acknowledgments

cover art by Emile Durant / based on a photo by Alyce Donohue

a hearty thank-you to Alice, Alisha, Alyce, Anna, Anthony, Arielle, Ashley, Bee, Cat, Corinne, Effi, Elly, Emile, Emily, Erika,
Gabe, Jenni, Jeremy, Jon, Lain, Lindsey, Mary, Monica, Nicole, Rooftop, Shannon, Susan, Tors, and Tuney.

you contributed to the creation of this, even if you don’t know it. you are what i aspire to become. there are many more to
name, but i won’t for now.

this humble chapbook is dedicated to Thomas James “Jim” “T.J.” Steimer.

wherever you are, i hope you’re eating well.

dear reader, this address is where you can & should send electronic mail to the person who wrote these words:
corvidaepoetry@gmail.com
 ~

i am grateful, eternally,
that my scars will persist.
they converge in a map
of where i most want to be kissed