My Body as a Home

Ma cuts a pomegranate along its ridges.
I watch it rupture. I imagine my organs
splitting open like that.
Laid out like a wound, bare and aching.

Ma offers gutted arils with one hand.
Grips my wrist with the other as if
I’ll faint again. Eat, she pleads.
I trace my rib cage, a collapsing railroad.
I am so close to becoming past tense.

Last night, Ma swabbed my flesh,
purple and pitted, like spring.
I wanted to feel full again.
Wear this body as a home.

I bite in & shrivel from the pomegranate’s sweetness.
How it erodes the tongue cradling it.
My teeth whittle the seeds into tiny gods.
I name each one after my bones,
tight and blue as breaths.
I have nothing left to fear.

Masfi Khan is a high school student from New York. She is the founder and editor-in-chief of For the Sonorous, a literary journal dedicated to empowering and publishing women and non-binary people of color. Her poetry has received national recognition from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Smith College, Gannon University, and Columbia College Chicago. Her writing appears in The Rising Phoenix Review.

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One Response to My Body as a Home

  1. Oh…!! That hurts my soul.

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