I
A pious girl is hard to find. I prefer my anger. I prefer to sweat. So it doesn’t have to feel good when I pull roots up with both hands. Most of them repulse me, full of teeth and hair and bone. Sometimes eyes and tiny ears, slicked with cradle cap. When it comes to loving things, I don’t just have all day.
II
I can lead a horse to water, but I still won’t let it fuck me. Instead, I’ll learn to tape my own weak knees. I’ll stack sandbags at both ends. When the horse decides to stay another night, I’ll plug my ears and say stop talking to me, horse. I certainly won’t trawl the past or offer any oats. Instead, I’ll squeeze my eyes too tight. I’ll wrench myself away and treat the bruise with ice.
III
I could say: if and when I feel it on the surface of my skin. If I think in idle dreams or anaesthetic, or instead if this feels close to home, I conjure up a room with no sounds. Imagine no horses, no gnashings of teeth. I ask how I would look with all of language stripped away, even curvy ones. What would happen to my nimble fingers, where the colours could have gone. Ask if I’d be pretty, if I’d need to be at all. I draw myself a mirror so I can whisper rude of u to ask. I give myself a wink or two, continue with my roots.
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Cecilia Stuart's work has been published in PRISM international, the Antigonish Review, Bad Dog, and elsewhere. Her chapbook Mudroom (a collaborative work with photography by Adrian Kiva) was published by the Anchorage Press in 2018. You can find her online @ccliiea.