Egg tempera


A grinding in your stomach, deeply felt,
beneath the fleshy dunes your mother said
would have been considered beautiful
in the late 1400s.

        You rise and fall
with the bars on your lover’s stereo.
He hitches your wool skirt and ignores
the hot tears that tour your face and make you
think of your Renaissance sisters,
stroked into existence.

          We girls,
we bleeding, breathless girls, taking
dumb solace in the fact our bodies
have a long history, are politically charged,
and would’ve been considered beautiful
in the late 1400s.

        When it’s over
you roll onto your stomach, inspect yourself
with a period eye, and look to the site
marked by tepid blots.

 

 

Image: ‘Stereo’ / flickr

 

OL225-cover-rgb-(1000px)

Read the rest of Overland 225

 

If you liked this poem, buy the issue

Or subscribe and receive
four outstanding issues for a year

Charlotte Guest

Charlotte Guest is a writer and publishing officer at UWA Publishing. Her debut collection Soap is due out in late 2017.

More by Charlotte Guest ›

Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places.

If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate.


Related articles & Essays