"Obelus" by Anna Martin
2 poems by Lyd Havens
in the seventh grade, Delaney taught me the term “pancake nipples”
and that afternoon i walked home from the bus stop
and straight into my bedroom pulled my tank top
over my head and onto the floor un hooked
my bra and everything exhaled like the world’s
worst secret i turned to face the full-body mirror
and nothing shattered but nothing kept itself together
either my body couldn’t stop rising the stovetop
got hotter and hotter my mother told me this was not
what puberty looked like for her and oh if Delaney knew
she’d call me IHOP or Bisquick i guess this
is what coming-of-age is supposed to look like:
a 24-hour diner off some highway exit or a kitchen
that will never feel completely clean after every meal--
***
i wonder if that afternoon was foreshadowing for all the times
i was breakfast for an older man and his friends. i lost touch
with Delaney; i gave away the full-body mirror in my bedroom.
the men walked in but i did not hear the bell above the door.
i wish i did not come here often something was burning
for a year and a half straight i could smell it
i can still feel the spatula pressed into my back--
***
six years later and i am a terrible cook
six years later and a man has not seen me topless
since the others finally left my nipples
are only a shade darker than the rest of me
i try to cook breakfast for my friends but i only
fill the apartment with smoke and resurrection
my body blooms and it bursts and it butchers--
***
i am not a child anymore all the mirrors still
haven’t unnamed themselves oh i am such
a fast learner oh the glass still has teeth--
***
the first time my best friends and i changed clothes
in front of each other we compared breasts
and called each other beautiful again and again
we shared a reflection and maybe that was when
it stopped feeling like a weapon my best friends
show me the nudes they take for their partners or just
for themselves and it feels fearless to me so i go home
to the full-body mirror drilled into the wall of my living room
begin to unbutton everything i’m not shaking for once
i look myself in the eye i peel all my survival back
like dried syrup slowly, and deliberately.
and straight into my bedroom pulled my tank top
over my head and onto the floor un hooked
my bra and everything exhaled like the world’s
worst secret i turned to face the full-body mirror
and nothing shattered but nothing kept itself together
either my body couldn’t stop rising the stovetop
got hotter and hotter my mother told me this was not
what puberty looked like for her and oh if Delaney knew
she’d call me IHOP or Bisquick i guess this
is what coming-of-age is supposed to look like:
a 24-hour diner off some highway exit or a kitchen
that will never feel completely clean after every meal--
***
i wonder if that afternoon was foreshadowing for all the times
i was breakfast for an older man and his friends. i lost touch
with Delaney; i gave away the full-body mirror in my bedroom.
the men walked in but i did not hear the bell above the door.
i wish i did not come here often something was burning
for a year and a half straight i could smell it
i can still feel the spatula pressed into my back--
***
six years later and i am a terrible cook
six years later and a man has not seen me topless
since the others finally left my nipples
are only a shade darker than the rest of me
i try to cook breakfast for my friends but i only
fill the apartment with smoke and resurrection
my body blooms and it bursts and it butchers--
***
i am not a child anymore all the mirrors still
haven’t unnamed themselves oh i am such
a fast learner oh the glass still has teeth--
***
the first time my best friends and i changed clothes
in front of each other we compared breasts
and called each other beautiful again and again
we shared a reflection and maybe that was when
it stopped feeling like a weapon my best friends
show me the nudes they take for their partners or just
for themselves and it feels fearless to me so i go home
to the full-body mirror drilled into the wall of my living room
begin to unbutton everything i’m not shaking for once
i look myself in the eye i peel all my survival back
like dried syrup slowly, and deliberately.
Noli me tangere
With thanks to Troy Cunio
In the winter, I started growing out my hair.
Went off my anxiety meds. Turned 19
on the warmest day in February.
In the summer, I ran errands
while wearing a shirt that says
don’t touch me in both English and Latin.
As I waited to cross the street,
the stranger next to me told me
I look like a modern day Joan of Arc.
* *
* *
To be called brave by someone you don’t know
is to wonder if you wear survival like a half-burned dress.
To witness your own resilience
is to be both Jesus and Mary Magdalene.
* *
* *
Here I am: 19 years old with chin-length black hair.
Not quite girl, not totally afraid. Haven’t spoken
to any specific god in almost a decade, but I do speak.
Nobody told me what you do when the world tries to kill you,
so I improvised, and here I am now. I ate those flames whole,
or I just kept going. I spit in the face of every man
who called me a heretic, or I just started wearing a shirt
that says don’t touch me in two languages in hopes
that they finally get the message. I’ve been riding
on my own fearless back for centuries, or I just took it
one day at a time for 8 years.
I don’t know if I’m special for overcoming, but perhaps
I’m special for becoming.
* *
* *
Winter’s almost back. I’m watching the leaves outside
lose themselves. I haven’t had a haircut in about 9 months.
I turn 20 soon, and every sunrise is still a saint to me.
A friend recently said they most often associate me with swords,
and undying kindness.
What fine weapons I’ve forged for myself. How fireproof
my future seems to be. Maybe I was always born to do this.
With thanks to Troy Cunio
In the winter, I started growing out my hair.
Went off my anxiety meds. Turned 19
on the warmest day in February.
In the summer, I ran errands
while wearing a shirt that says
don’t touch me in both English and Latin.
As I waited to cross the street,
the stranger next to me told me
I look like a modern day Joan of Arc.
* *
* *
To be called brave by someone you don’t know
is to wonder if you wear survival like a half-burned dress.
To witness your own resilience
is to be both Jesus and Mary Magdalene.
* *
* *
Here I am: 19 years old with chin-length black hair.
Not quite girl, not totally afraid. Haven’t spoken
to any specific god in almost a decade, but I do speak.
Nobody told me what you do when the world tries to kill you,
so I improvised, and here I am now. I ate those flames whole,
or I just kept going. I spit in the face of every man
who called me a heretic, or I just started wearing a shirt
that says don’t touch me in two languages in hopes
that they finally get the message. I’ve been riding
on my own fearless back for centuries, or I just took it
one day at a time for 8 years.
I don’t know if I’m special for overcoming, but perhaps
I’m special for becoming.
* *
* *
Winter’s almost back. I’m watching the leaves outside
lose themselves. I haven’t had a haircut in about 9 months.
I turn 20 soon, and every sunrise is still a saint to me.
A friend recently said they most often associate me with swords,
and undying kindness.
What fine weapons I’ve forged for myself. How fireproof
my future seems to be. Maybe I was always born to do this.
Lyd Havens is the author of Survive Like the Water (Rising Phoenix Press, 2017), and currently studies Creative Writing and History at Boise State University. They were born on their due date, and have been painfully punctual ever since. Learn more at http://www.lydiahavens.com/.
Anna Martin is a digital/traditional artist, writer and photographer based out of Saint Augustine, Florida. She is an avid explorer and much of her artwork is inspired by her travels and life experiences, and she strives to capture emotions and inspire others with her work. Her work has been previously exhibited in various galleries and museums, such as the Rosenberg Gallery and the Baltimore Museum of Art, and has also been published in various art magazines such as Grub Street and Plenilune Magazine. Anna is a freelance artist, and is always looking for new work and collaborative projects. Anna also frequently works under the pseudonym Vacantia, and more of her art can be found at her online gallery: http://www.vacantia.org.
