August, Living Alone
These days, the heat has given me free therapy.
It’s had me around the house dressed
like there’s a pool nearby when I haven’t been in
one since middle school. My thighs peel off
each other like lint roller sheets. My belly
bursts sheer buttons. This bulge I
bear, called my body,
bare, feels like being caught
in a lie I am still telling.
At least I am saving electricity.
I killed a cockroach again today.
This one had the gall to appear
in the kitchen at ten in the morning.
I screamed and winced
as I clapped a foam slipper
against the cabinet, terrified
an antenna would touch an inch
of my bared
body. So far this week,
we are tied: I’ve killed two and two
have gotten away.
WINSHEN LIU is a writer from Plainfield, Illinois who enjoys taking public transit (especially trains) and watching dogs play. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Baltimore Review, Brink, Gordon Square Review, Malahat Review, Ninth Letter, RHINO, and The Rumpus.