The Creation of Lives After

now, i am tomorrowed, deciding
futures i want to be a part of, i am
holding my own bones and happy
i cannot see them. how can i thank
my ribcage for the way it cradles
deeper breaths? how do you write
a heart that beats anyway? this is
the body i am. this is the only way
i know time. my pinkies twist together
in the long chain of myself my body
is promise that i am in the world.
i am living careless. in fact, it is
disorderly, not disordered, it is
forgetting what i have eaten, and
i find you can breathe in the
un-and-underthought. this is
the body i am. i move like even i
am not watching me.

my body priests my self to god
i am the hand, the hand
the reaching.

About the Author

Olivia Stowell is a graduate student at Villanova University pursuing her Masters in English. Her recent poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Albion Review, Ghost City Review, FIVE:2:ONE’s #thesideshow, Madcap Review, Right Hand Pointing, and The Merrimack Review.