Lean

How to tell of the highest register, of
The crackling voice, slivering
From nearby woods.
What it’s like to receive
When you shatter at a touch,
Eaten from the inside,
Gasping with the bends — look up
And the sky is clad with clouds.

Born and grown then crumbling
Like frozen mulch in winter.
I am no longer lean
But swollen, a water-logged
Corpse, swampy and loose.
I horrify myself without purpose.
Signifier of blankness, signifying nothing.
And the sky is clad with clouds.

I lean on scratched marble,
Dented plaster, wet rubber.
Yes, I remember trembling,
Light bouncing. Yes, I long.
And for what? Night falls,
Pressure releases, veins engorge,
I weaken again in dappled moonlight,
And the sky is clad with clouds.

Lilian McCarthy (she/they) is a disabled, queer, nonbinary woman who lives in Boston, MA; and Dublin, Ireland. She is a Masters candidate in Comparative Literature at Trinity College Dublin. She enjoys fabric arts, painting, playing with animals, writing, and translating French and Italian work.