Natasha Wein: 3 Poems

Belly Breathing

From my belly I spit little fires— 
          they are sweet & hurt & dusty.
Each slippery flame is work
          to keep warm. I walk back to my
first step and other beginnings
          I did not stick, waiting for moments 
to unfasten myself from swift 
          hooks before I become what I am 
not. I am my silhouette’s own 
          shadow unpicking learned stitches 
and stretching long with the 
          morning sun. Burrowing deep, 
I thread as many layers of
          someone else’s warmth as I can; 
I wear this seam with a ready
          scream. Splitting closeness for 
freedom, my working lungs 
          grieve like plastic bags in trees. 
I am an echo talking back
          to its origin, mourning its own 
sound. Rolling over, back 
          into my periphery, I recite my 
name to the wind; the wind 
          unable to be owned, an acrobat, 
belonging everywhere, forever 
          choosing its direction, making a 
mess with all of its hands.

In Neuropathy’s Wake

when a paperclip 
forgives and bends 
back 
          it cannot hold 
itself

cauterized by its own 
toughening       
          slipped 
          and a broken 
hip            knee caps 
knocked loose            slanted 
like crooked frames

bruises have already 
been broken            calcifying 
what they cannot clean

I am a collection of one-way 
streets:          tear ducts            
oatmeal for dinner       
the Great Saphenous Vein 
          rooting my heart to 
          the Earth            
the inhales that won’t let go 
and their 
          reaching fingertips

this tumbleweed of a body          
picked and pruned
                    shattering 
to the touch           
          my fingers sorting 
through themselves    crumbling 
into my lap

I pocket the ones that point

and move with 
the nomadic tribe 
of pins 
and needles 
dancing and marching 
          burning 
the length of my arm 
for warmth

Reclamation

A man I believe to be good curls my tongue like a ladle / drinking at high tide / summer sandboxes and bustling anthills / fists recede from tunnels as quickly as they plunge / the undertow and its advantage / tunnels collapse and plastic castles eulogize growing up and out / a graveyard / I pull teeth and what roots yank out / burying him into my youth / sound creeping up my throat / my desert mouth / lips stitched together by transplanted shame / a gift I welcome / barricading myself in for shelter / I squint at the cactus I have become / blooming into itself / ingrown spines / orphaned / my soft baby teeth once protruded through my gums like nobly mushrooms shouting hello to my novice mouth / today I water them and let something sprout / private.

Natasha Wein (she/her) is an artist and emerging poet raised in the San Francisco Bay Area now working out of Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Her writing parallels her painting process and was featured in 8Poems and her art exhibitions since 2017. For more on her work, go to www.nweinart.com.