by Erin Latham Shea
waiting on the bloodwork results, i first prayed to
a waft of murky water, the pond behind the Lake Road house,
the old yellow kitchen tile
spiders x3
my dead neuro-ophthalmologist, who was a Pisces, too,
and a packrat
a cherub in a snow globe
some uncorked light, but with tenses too slippery,
and clenched, queasy verbs: endure, shudder, curl, shoulder.
trust and fear, to-and-fro, then the sun
at my back,
that muffled promise of return,
through chattering teeth
tanking
he watches me stretch
reverse prayer
until dizzy
until flat-chested
a taut animal torso
still trusting
not to be paunched
like something cold-blooded.
I hold my scaly
November elbows
and listen for the creak of the mattress.
My diaphragmatic display
(my fawning)
aroused him, so
I hadn’t seen it
as a goodbye
until spring swept in
a jet-lagged tourist
eager and exhausted
and easy to spot.
Erin Latham Shea is a dynamically disabled writer, editor, and Pushcart-nominated poet residing in Connecticut. She holds an MA in English from LSU New Orleans. Her work has appeared in the Vocal+ Fiction Awards Anthology, Ink and Marrow, The Mersey Review, and ARTWIFE Magazine, among others. She’s an Assistant Poetry Editor at Wishbone Words and Editor-in-Chief of Housebound Magazine. You can find her on Instagram @somebookishrambles