Post Canvas #14 by David Goodrum
Anatomy of Girlhood by Corina Yi
Because a girl is partial until her
limbs are sewn on and her tongue
is clipped to pacify her tenants, I find myself
occupying queer spaces: between the veins
of a monarch’s wings and slabs of whale blubber:
to loot my body without fracturing it. See how
the countenance of maturing is also
a body—yielding, unnerving when
seized. I weigh glimpses of motherhood
like spoiled turnips, turn dreamless
in the kitchen when I lip vacant
apologies to Mother. She cups my face
like a recipe, doughs my cheeks
and measures my naked lashes
in teaspoon intervals. She studies
the shadowed angles of my face, counts
calendar days since I last wore buttons
on my sundresses and spooled magenta
ribbons in my once-virgin hair. Clasping her
hands together at the dinner table, she wishes
for feminine youth to revisit me. But when
a girl steals from herself, the adults pay no
attention, so she steals and steals and
steals until: I bathe like Mother, soak
fluorescence from my threaded fingertips; not
to rebel but to retreat in the absence of a light-
like compass, slaughter guilt and make
of it size two footprints that take me
someplace else.
limbs are sewn on and her tongue
is clipped to pacify her tenants, I find myself
occupying queer spaces: between the veins
of a monarch’s wings and slabs of whale blubber:
to loot my body without fracturing it. See how
the countenance of maturing is also
a body—yielding, unnerving when
seized. I weigh glimpses of motherhood
like spoiled turnips, turn dreamless
in the kitchen when I lip vacant
apologies to Mother. She cups my face
like a recipe, doughs my cheeks
and measures my naked lashes
in teaspoon intervals. She studies
the shadowed angles of my face, counts
calendar days since I last wore buttons
on my sundresses and spooled magenta
ribbons in my once-virgin hair. Clasping her
hands together at the dinner table, she wishes
for feminine youth to revisit me. But when
a girl steals from herself, the adults pay no
attention, so she steals and steals and
steals until: I bathe like Mother, soak
fluorescence from my threaded fingertips; not
to rebel but to retreat in the absence of a light-
like compass, slaughter guilt and make
of it size two footprints that take me
someplace else.
Corina Yi (she/her) is a student writer who lives in Oahu, Hawai’i. Her work has been recognized by the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers and appears in Maudlin House, Eunoia Review, SOFTBLOW, and more. You can find her on her Twitter account she used to upload her Animal Crossing content to, @rainytulips. She likes her dog a lot.
David Goodrum (Corvallis, Oregon) has had photography published in various art/literature journals and juried into many art festivals. He hopes to create a visual field that transports you away from daily events and into a place that delights in an intimate view of the world. See additional work at www.davidgoodrum.com.
