The Subsect

By: Mathilda Bofinger

This body

More familiar than before

Sits alone

Sits unseated

Sits foreign at my shore

I know its shape and the space it will take

its entrance into my own

This body, with branches new and full

Tiny buds, rage and full of gore

Tender hands removed the muck

And eventually succeed

But find that only what was left

was not me

Not he

But rather

A subsect.

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A version of this post originally appeared in “Clarity” The Teller May 2019 Issue 6

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