Poetry by Roseanna Alice Boswell
I will talk to you only in brush strokes from now on
paint morse code against the inside pink of my belly
— the swimming sea-salt of me.
If you have a stethoscope, or an oversized seashell
you can listen for my watery whisperings
report back to me whether I have anything alive.
My spleen has been saying the Hail Mary for days,
not for grace, but breathing room, it knows my interior is selfish
with space, needs fluids to stay balanced, craves hollows–
can you hear the amniotic shifting of my girlhood?
Bobble-shaped and transparent, blown-glass delicate.
A glossy goldfish in a bowl: you only see her when she moves.
I will long for the clarity of my mouth sometimes,
the sharpness of words, but I need this seismic tracing
to revisit my craters, the ways in which I won’t be filled.
Roseanna Alice Boswell is a poetry MFA candidate at Bowling Green State University in Ohio. Her work has appeared or will appear soon in Driftwood Press, Maudlin House, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Glittermob, and elsewhere. Roseanna is currently acting as Managing Editor of the Mid-American Review.