Movement of heron and cell— strange how a word can carry both. Even stranger how a woman’s body learns to carry: soft pull against her insides that pulls until it ends in violence the way a fairy tale ends in something broken. Were the women of the old stories ever this afraid? When I say cervix, do I mean neck or uterus? One day, I’ll say one and mean the other. I know what my body’s supposed to be for. If fear is sharp, then I have given my neck to the guillotine. That strange lure of flight— to wing across a gunmetal sky. If this is a story, then in it, some women grow wings.
Taylor Hamann Los is an MFA student at Lindenwood University. Her poetry has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, perhappened, Split Rock Review, and Rust + Moth, among others. She lives with her husband and two cats in Wisconsin. You can find her on Twitter (@taylorhamannlos), Instagram (taylorhlos_poetry), or at taylorhamannlos.wordpress.com.