pink bubbles circulate her
–gather in my pubic hair.
Pockets burst within dark scruff
criss-crossed, my legs besiege the tub
severing our ocean in two parts
my form conquering space–
an iceberg against a buoy.
Fur sprouts with the height of puberty.
She gathers white fluff in her palms, lathering soap in dirty-blonde locks
massaging higher and higher until she forms a tin hat–
fairytales we spew as a connection to our God.
Mom thinks I’m too old to bathe with friends now–
whispered against my bed sheets before “Goodnight” rests beside me.
I refuse to be without Clementine’s soapy mane. The rest of her is still
smooth and slight–
cementing our divide.
Nightmares of spiky legs, tangled leaves–
branches spit out across my jagged edges equating adulthood or–
even an end to our songs,
our fragile world
–built on an island of hot water quickly dying without steam.
Always Alone in Grocery Stores
Leor Feldman (they/them/she/her) is a writer based in Denver, Colorado. They often write of their body as a roadmap to illustrate how they’ve grown through chronic illness, while also exploring their relationship with their Jewish culture and queer identity. With a BA in Writing & Literature from California College of the Arts, Leor is currently working towards a Masters in International & Intercultural Communication at the University of Denver. They have poetry published in Humble Pie Literary Journal, as well as articles in Hey Alma and The Colorado Sun. Find them on Instagram.