Nóra Blascsók

                                           from behind

                                           body of a baby

                                           owl sleeping

                                           arms limp

                                           the small

                                           of my back

                                           yes

                                           turn over

                                           childbearing

                                           hips like

                                           grandmother said

                                           we bled for

                                           the original sin

                                           brackets around

                                           sentence drenched

                                           it’s fake

                                           run

                                           pen over

                                           thigh

                                           line wider and wider

                                           leave a gap for

                                           the imagination

                                           the pause

                                           before you go

                                           under

                                           can’t look

                                           roast potatoes

                                           would be nice later

                                           draw big

                                           areolae

                                           remind myself

                                           my breasts

                                           have an underside

                                           a lump

                                           in my throat

                                           as I check for

                                           hated them touched

                                           now I don’t

                                           watch

                                           my skin fade

                                           colour my teeth

                                           into lips

                                           draw curtain

                                           for hiding

                                           off the page

                                           amorphous

                                           Play-Doh

                                           make me

                                           in the image

                                           of Goddess

                                           of Woman

                                           or something

                                           that passes