By Sunshine Zéa Leeuwon

The body breathes, and I am.


Flesh sloughs in ribbons, wet and warm,
pulled slowly from the hollow beneath.
A second mouth yawns where my stomach once was,
slick gums glistening, whispering hunger.

My bones remember weight but not form,
lengthening, twisting, bending inward.
Fingers unspooling into sinew and thread,
knotted tight around my internal pulsing.

Beneath the old shell, a wet bloom shudders,
spine splitting into mirrored spires.
I do not stand, I do not kneel—
I stretch,
                I stretch,
                                I stretch.

The body breathes, and I am. ■