THE MIRROR IN MY UNIVERSITY’S WEIGHT ROOM SPEAKS TO ME, IN TWO PARTS

 
 

  1. PRE-INTERIM SUSPENSION

 

boy, you’ve got a silhouette no one else wants

& you’ve got the kind of hips men midnight-snack

on & baby, you’ve got gun arms & chapped hands

& girl, you’ve got that swig/sip down & hey,

kid, where are you running to? there’s no bike trail

or ocean far away enough for you to body through

& still be able to come back & you’ve got the kind

of small wrists some people will look at & dream

into cuffs & you’ve still got enough ability to pedal

through a whining night & girl, you’re gonna hafta

work on your boy-walk if you want to make it out

of this undertow with your full jaw unbroken, ok?

baby, close your eyes when you’re pumping iron.

don’t let them see you falter when you choose

what kind of grip/stance to take. boykid/babygirl,

you’ve got cheekbones like a movie scene, like

the Eiffel Tower crumbles into where your lap

just was & now the whole world knows why

the bad-mouth taste felt almost reunion-like.

 

  1. POST-INTERIM SUSPENSION

 

kid, i think the only way to get them

to stop chasing you

is to let yourself          / get caught

 

Linette Reeman (they/them pronouns) has work published or forthcoming in Blueshift Journal, Maps for Teeth, FreezeRay, Public Pool, Alien Mouth, and others. They are a multiple Pushcart Prize and Bettering American Poetry nominee, have performed for venues like The Bowery Poetry Club and Busboys & Poets, and occasionally sleep a full 8 hours.