ISO by Sophie Klahr

/ / home, Issue 11, Poetry

wanted: a width, a girth. vessel me, burden me, break me into bearing:

      take this sluice to be swollen, worn, heavy in gait,  o    

give me a heft to hold, his or her own I am, owing surrender:

            the deed to a bastard house I lost—


there is no one to ask to bear with me

            our unborn. who is our?  it takes a plural to produce

the thing that’s gone—            what we?


who were you anyway?