There Was  A Woman

by Kyla Alterman

There was a woman
who looked up at the stars,
and upon seeing them began to cry,
“How did I ever get so small?”
She brooded, then tried to call out
to hear the Universe’s retort
but her voice was lost— the air too thick,
buzzing — the surrounding dark too absolute.
“I barely exist, I barely exist”

She put her thumb in her mouth
and bit down, teeth marks leaving the skin
raw. Tiny droplets of crimson, of salt
formed, dripped down her lip, off her nose
until her face was sticky and she couldn’t endure.
Her stained lips faced
the sky that remained placid.
“Can’t you feel when we’re hurting?”

The woman took down the road — fast — with no shoes
feet forming tender bubbles.
Wind braced her skin, coveting, grabbing at her
warmth, translucent she pressed
through the darkness — too absolute — to where
her lungs stung of carbon, muscles twitching.
She crawled to the grass — rasping —
“Do I feel alive now that I feel life leaving me?”

The woman took a fistful of grass
pulled, blades breaking, pulled
“I can destroy! See, O I can destroy!”
But the newly stripped soil scoffed,
entangled with white, spindly roots.
—She pulled, blades breaking, pulled —
Clumps covered her lap, burying her
“How did I ever get so small in the darkness?”