One Poem by Janna Grace

I am just as angry as you

but I do not slam my mouse down
against the uncut table
gesticulate at a screen that only means to project
and whisper angrily at the air that you chew
and spit out, when it just wants to float
down to your lungs.

Instead I take tiny bites
of my body, from the inside
wet and shadowed places,
gnawing, but stopping
before my teeth reach my
outer layer, my whale skin,
my snail’s porcelain shell,
cushioned by muscles
that are collapsing.

I somehow always leave
below the surface or on the outside to absorb
you fling, so carelessly at the world
for being what it is.

It is the moon behind my eyes that only wanes,
a rocket’s booster turning, then falling back to earth,
the ocean floor trying to remember the glow
of one lone pilot-fish
cold, and slumped at the back of my ribcage.

After looking at the statistics, even though I’m a woman
and you’re a man—
I am sure I will die


Janna Grace lives in a half-glass barn and her work has appeared in Plastik Magazine and Red Eft Review, among others. She has work forthcoming in Otoliths and she teaches writing at Rutgers University. Janna edits Lamplit Underground and her debut novel will be published through Quill Press in 2019.

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