I dreamt I Was a woman
Breath slouches and the wind plays deep synth,
an arpeggio lines the collar bone with some unknown jewel. Spread on thick,
glistening with
the heavy syntax of vowels on the lower back.
Thinking is just a fermentation -
our ligaments, these organs of overtones,
cause a change in cadence.
My darling, if you feel wrong in front of history make it past all this excess flesh
to the spinal chord - it will suck up the oil,
down through the hips, lips frothing liquid words.
About the author: Klara Feenstra is a 21 year old poet from London currently completing her bachelor’s in American Literature and Creative Writing. Her work is primarily invested with phenomenological concerns, particularly how time and memory is recalled, archived, and how these urgencies manifest themselves in language about the body. She has upcoming publications in Lighthouse, shufPoetry, and SoFloPoJo.
