with my wrist in my throat
they say you look amazing / what they mean is / you look thin / thinner than last time / we saw each other / this is true / but i am not sure / it is good / i have made less of myself / they are right / i can fit / into spaces / more quietly / and am less likely / to offend / the rings slide down my fingers / which requires caution / because i push my fingers / too far back / my wrist slides into my throat / the contortion is amazing / my body always accommodates / the punishment / a necessary precursor / if i want pleasure / the sweet seduction / of being told / i look / thin / good / amazing / there is no praise / for a woman that takes / up more room / i am succeeding / at slipping beneath / a man / who will not love me / there is less of me / to critique / he cannot catch me / in his peripheral / when my frame is fleeting / the skin and bone / pull each other closer / each night / my clavicles make an appearance / i invite everyone / into the bathroom / so they can see / the speed of the trigger / they should admire / the panorama spraying onto porcelain / i want them / to pass me a hair elastic / run the sink loud / marvel at my form / stand back / and applaud my efforts /
Katey Linskey is a writer with poetry out and forthcoming in The West Review, Rise Up Review, Vagabond City Lit and elsewhere. She draws from her experiences growing up in Boston and later living in India and Guatemala. She spent six years working in public health which continues to inform her work as a writer.
A Song for Katie