Daily Contortions
Juliette Jeffers

Lying in bed, flattening myself, violently with clenched teeth,
delicate resistance to the lump in my throat, removed each day
with sheer will, and the reward of butter 
dissolving on my tongue. 
I am standing in the kitchen. 
Sheets drift outside like heaven. 
The floor rots beneath my socks, 
sticking to my eyelids 
that slide across the pan. 
The self is very dedicated. 

I drink potassium/magnesium 
to get through the afternoon. 
The center of the center, 
the waters from the waters. 
Here I am in my house dress looking 
for a way out of my skin, my 
breath is wrong. 
​
Crouching over my laptop, 
a bug bite blossoms, 
pale raised moon. 
The imposter compresses 
my internal monologue 
into my soft palate. 
A thawing in the moonlight, a choir call. 
The self is wrapped in down, in arms sticking to the damp air,
the cling of sheets, the nothing of it, a universal nothing like a
white mouse under snow.

Juliette is a student at Pitzer College and is majoring in Creative Writing.