Christina Lee
My body
ace-bandaged, my body drained, my body
my weapon. My body under
fluorescent lights, my body mollified, my body malicious, my body
on fire the first time I sneak out of the house in
spaghetti straps and the light hits my shoulder just right.
My body floating, my body the Virgin Mary.
My body as possible vessel, my body
as an open soda can, passed around, getting warmer,
Full of backsplash, useless once used.
My body the object lesson, better keep it on ice, closed tight.
My body better size-up, my body padded,
my body underwired, my body stitched up, my body falling
asleep beside him, my body bruised, my body a
billboard, my body invisible, my body in a forward fold,
my body magic, my body measured, my body spilling over,
my body taking another lap, my body wet,
my body bleeding, my body white as a sheet, my body hungry,
hungry, hungry. My body sanguine, my body a liability,
my body waxing, waning, my body hostile, my body burning,
my body water, my body wind, my body
a liar, my body asking for it.
Christina Lee’s essays and poetry have appeared in Tin House Online, The Toast, The Seattle Times, Hoot Review, Apeiron Review, Whale Road Review, Ruminate Journal, Relief Journal, and The Porch, among other journals, as well as in the anthologies Adam, Eve and the Riders of the Apocalypse: 39 Contemporary Poets on the Characters of the Bible (Cascade Books, 2017), edited by D.S. Martin; and Waves: A Confluence of Women’s Voices, forthcoming from A Room of Her Own Foundation. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Seattle Pacific University. She lives in Seattle with her husband.
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