Liz Bowen

I’M ONLY NOT EMBARRASSED
WHEN I’M WAKING UP

the stomach does the work
of the stomach whether
or not any objects are inside it 

the stomach stomachs in on itself
holding its own 

i can’t stop digesting
all the possible routes of the trains
their shuttling around in the dark
and you, peacefully
enclosed 

// the thought of you
stepping up from under the ground
like the organism you are

a soft intrusion 

the night is nighting in on itself
i can’t stop needing to lie down 

i can’t stop the child thoughts
the nurse’s office
the lump in the throat is in the stomach
actually

my body receives my responsibilities
and crunches them
it lives in my cell phone

HOW NOT TO BE EMBARRASSED
HOW TO BE TRYING
VISIBLY

i don’t know how to care for you
and contain the residue
of hours
of constricted possibility 

(this time when i talk about care
i am talking about love
and i don’t know how) 

speechless on a surface of wood
a surface of steel
a surface of stucco
i can’t stop needing to lie down

J says treasure the pangs
she says we are lucky
to be raw underneath
this time when i talk about love
i am talking about the squeal
of a ground tooth
chipping at last

HOW TO SPIT OUT THE RESIDUE
HOW NOT TO LOOK AT THE LIVING THING 

living in the empty stomach of my stomach
it sticks to my vessels in gentle membranes
// a smooth encroachment

i fucked up
in my heart

Liz Bowen is a poet and doctoral student in English and comparative literature at Columbia University. She spends a lot of time thinking and writing about unruly bodies; friendship, care and desire; and animals in the woods. Her first poetry collection, SUGARBLOOD, is forthcoming from Metatron Press.