Dear Body,

We haven’t spoken in a while. You & your paper lungs & click of beetles under the tongue. You & your longing to pull a pink moon from its sky & drink its nectar until satisfied. I told you not to dwell on the moon. It sings all sorts of lies. Remember when we believed that if you swallowed a watermelon seed, you’d grow one too & wasn’t that a miracle? The miracle of slicing something open & finding ants inside. No, I won’t apologize for leaving him. I know that’s what you want. You ache for cantankerous gods: the sting of deer flies or the splintering of bone. You’ve grown feral, whining like a dog snagged in a trap. But look, I am the aftermath.

Self-Portrait as Dove After Strychnine

Researchers split me from bill to tail & thumb through the almanac of my organs. They pluck out my liver, ask why it tells of stunted seasons. Why my feathers clench around my skin. Why there’s no conversation between brain & muscle. I say: Because the serpent deceived me, & I ate. The bait crooned with the voice of grain. I say: Because scalpels slide too easily. I threaded my nest with thistles & left behind a drop of blood. How could I know I’d spend half my life convulsing? I found a storm drain & sang down into that cellar-dark. I prayed to walk in light blinding as a lab coat. If I could just touch these garments & be clean.

Note: “The serpent deceived me, & I ate” is taken from Genesis 3:13 (ESV).

Taylor Hamann Los holds an MFA from Lindenwood University. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in Whale Road Review, Magma Poetry, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Chestnut Review, and trampset, among others. She is the author of Between My Spine & the River (Ridge Books, 2025). You can find her on X (@taylorhamannlos) and at taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.