Greta Moran | Poem

Slow Fist

I wish I did not negotiate
my body like a capitalist always
fearing my scarcity, I tell myself:
no, I am supple and spacious
there is room for you too,
come inside

I wish I could break myself in two,
then three, then four, give myself
away like I trust that the rain
is enough, that I will grow
back; at any hour I can
apotheosize from stone
to bread, dust to bud

I am too static to be
beautiful, to let myself be more
process than figure, I want to believe
in my empty silos, the renewability
of my limbs; I’ve raised algae
in my belly as a second
source of life, it can sustain me
if I need to float through
the ocean.

When I was eleven
I decided that having a body was too much work
so I transfigured myself into tripwire,
a silent inconvenience

On most days I am still scared of being seen

In the mirror I assume the shape
of a flame trying to draw out
its light; this is how I pray myself
back into my skin every day

I am learning how to hold
the world, moment
by moment, in tangent
with someone

Come,
I want to love you
like you are more pattern
than form, like your shape requires
more algebra than geometry,
which is to say there is always
an unknown integer
between us

Trust that
my hand is slow fist that will open in you

.

.


Greta Moran is a writer and helicopter parent to her cat, whom she lives with in New York. Her work has appeared in The Atlantic, The Feminist Wire, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Posture Magazine, and elsewhere. As an associate literary agent at The Beth Vesel Literary Agency, she enjoys advocating for perilous, new voices.

2018-01-22T11:07:03+00:00 January 16th, 2018|