This Is A Mantra I Can’t Tell My Mother

A good orgasm is a kind bladder pressure. It feels sneaky not to leave a trail but I’ve already let my ex-girlfriend piss on me in the shower & internalized her stepdad’s approval. I’m well-versed in reification. When my own hands feel foreign & I can no longer recognize my left eye, I succeed. This is a mantra I can’t tell my mother. It’s not that she won’t understand but will understand too well. 

Much later I, willfully disembodied, ignore my oral diameter & store what I can in a cavity I’ve spent the better part of a decade excavating with the world’s tiniest shovel. Before it offers a storage solution it offers roaches, waterfowl, & candied liver. Before it offers a storage solution it offers liminality between dentist visits. Much later I miss the dentist, miss our open mouths, dark & mocking,  separated by gauze. My mother reminds me not to be too loud.

There’s not much left to forfeit. I’m okay very little but at heart am a maximalist. It’s why I bite off more than I can chew. I want to be stuffed, grotesquely rotund & seeping from seams exacerbated by adolescent laxative abuse. I hear you can eat so much you crush your organs.

Rachel Stempel is a genderqueer Ukrainian-Jewish poet. Their chapbook, BEFORE THE DESIRE TO EAT, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press, and their work has appeared recently in SPORAZINE and Boxcar Poetry Review. They currently live on Long Island.