I Was Not a Tender Lover by Michelle Hulan
Nominated for Best of the Net
I swallowed air more than I breathed it. Took space
more than I held it. He said I’d die
ten times and still rise a woman made of bees
swarming chrysanthemums, dragging dust
between worlds. I said he lassoed meaning
in a house of mirrors, pushing his hands
through glass to find memory, grabbing
my shoulders, which have a history of shrugging.
I clutched the crests of my stomach, and he reminded me
I was not soft. I took my knuckles
to his lips. Called them hissing mollusks
in the sand. At dawn, he said most of me was the tongue
of a bell clanging against copper until only what echoed
remained. I said the rest was light.
Michelle Hulan (she/her) is a poet and writer. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Chestnut Review, Poet Lore, Sundog Lit, RHINO, and elsewhere. She received her MA in English from the University of Ottawa and lives in Brooklyn with her family. Follow her on Twitter @michellehulan.
Art by Five South