I sit bare
in the bathtub, my mother’s hands
carefully soaping the skin of my back.
My chest is taped up, trapping layers
of dried blood against me, like a bee
held beneath a swatter.
Gently, I cup my breasts-
if they can even be called that now.
They have been shrunken down
to fit me, like the ends of suit pants
hemmed to a child’s ankles.
This body has never felt like mine.
Still, I am waiting.
Warped and yellowed,
these rounded shapes
cling to my chest.
While I sit, and
quiet. Here, I am wetted
with cold strokes, like clay
before it is molded.
Eroded rocks, that is what I am-
something beaten down
by calculated weather. Edges
smoothed out and tucked in,
like a hotel sheet. Some piece
of plaster carefully reshaped
into this. A new form
in Yesterday’s clothing.
Like the dead fish
your parents swapped out
for a replica, and prayed
you wouldn’t notice.
Fyn Goldstein (they/them) is a queer Canadian-American poet currently living in Ontario. Their poetry has been published in magazines such as The Toronto Public Library’s Young Voices, Paper Dragon, The Branches Journal, Floating Acorn Review, and White Wall Review.
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 