STELLA ANN-HARRIS

A weaning

Conversion pilled by lexapro
Apparently I am not even
A lesbian anymore.
Fantasies of furred
Arms, syled restraint
Call like a netted fig.
Wise Eliza says regression:
Formative sexual agreements
Stakeless entering
Wake up in an armpit
Feel like a king. 

Pussy as whatever
Pussy as comfort object
Holding myself sweetly
Under the covers before bed.
Eyes closed
I’m princess Jasmine
Hands tied sand pours
Suddenly I am kidnapped
By a pair of giant tits
Who take me between them
To the woods
Gingham curtain white bows
All the while I am sucking.
Afterwards pray:
No more hunger
On earth, health
Of the home,
Big naturals,
A good heart.

Sprawl my guts
Then gird them
Like a suburban lawn:
I am a family woman too.
Mom asks what I am
Thinking about.
She’s got a screw
In her foot
And a screw in her knee.
Imagining myself replying
Oh being filled
And thrown away.

Long nights we feed the baby
Potato chips.
I fancy myself more elegant,
Like a fruit
But then again
I am screwless.

Stella-Ann Harris is a writer living in Brooklyn. Her work can be found in Air/Light, The Portland Review, and elsewhere.