Two Poems
Kristin Sanders

Falling or playing dead or lying there or wrapped up or mummified or making a sign, a symbol.

I was busy being classified. I was busy being looked at. What about all the other bodies, can we examine the other bodies. I wanted to rely on some trauma to explain it all. All of the other women were worse off than me but I kept on being never not enough. What about all the other bodies, where do they go. I was busy making myself look one way for them to look at me in another. When they walked into the room I remembered the color of old wine poured down a silver sink, the smell. When I saw blood I remembered trees. Men brought flowers. I brought what they took and I gave it. I am looking for the other bodies and their traumas. This is so embarrassing. That I cannot remember the color of their eyes.


For example, how I've grown to be too much.

He said he could never love a woman who had tripped and fallen in front of him. He said he could trace it back to one childhood memory of a woman in white falling on gravel. He left the room. I rearranged myself on his bed.

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