Giselle den Breems
Swollen
If you close your eyes hard
enough, the sheets could be petals beneath
the apple tree
after a Spring storm skip Summer.
An apple from straight above falls
stem to bellybutton and leaves a dent
right there. The mattress, cool dirt.
My body lies and has no heat.
This mattress is second-hand which is to say,
who knows what stains the heart of it?
In turn the ribs surround the heart
and between each bone is a place for a finger.
When all else fails
the hands hold up the body.
If the mattress is Earth imagine
the ribcage as nest
for birds to haunt like people
haunt their houses, homes.
Above: the Sun dismantles each blossom
(her fingers are pointy but warm). I watch,
and it seems to me that the ones falling now
are not as soft as the ones I lie on. These
are sharp shreds of pearl or bone or both.
The noise is deafening.
When you say home
I don’t know if you mean
your house or your body.
Midsummer aches through its days,
but it remains Winter here in this body.
I have made it so.
Then the apples, come Autumn.
Everything alive begins to swell.
That includes me.
Giselle den Breems is a sixteen-year-old who loves to write and spend time in nature, particularly if there is snow or a lake involved. Her poetry is predominantly inspired by recurring memories that embody certain phases or feelings.