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Fertile Decomposition

By Georgia Davidson


Art by Abigayle Schroder


I like to think that the branches hanging in my room

will one day achieve new life;

that they will attach themselves back to the black painted tree

and remember my father’s hands and my bird’s feet.

It’s soothing to imagine the boxes under my bed

that I can’t stand to touch

will be flipped through by small, jam covered fingers.


I stall on the belief that possession is my only comfort,

that maybe I’ll stain the counters red

of someone who is not my mother

and that the only liminal space held barren

will be that of the nest above my window.

And in the summertime, I’ll took up to my ceiling

to see ladybugs watching down on me and my demise,

a watercolor of disheveled laundry and clumps of hair.


I summon myself, the red witch of Bedford Ave,

in a frenzie of violent self portraits and perfumed powders,

moving the needle in and out of the dress

and the flesh that is underneath.

And in my shoestring-laced corset,

I cyanotype myself up against the wall,

where there can be proof that the sun was once here.


I tie apples and figs around my waist

and swallow the sticks left out by the wind,

letting them pierce through my tummy.

I braid corn husks into my hair

and lay on my coffee table with my feet up above.

The great horn of plenty!


I look at people who get too close to this sight

and imagine what it would feel like

to trace their neck with my fingertips

or press my cheek up against theirs.

I wonder if they can feel me chewing on their hair.

I’m also afraid people will find me perverted if I glance in their direction

so I only do this when they are turned away.


I like to think that the branches hanging in my room

will one day achieve new life,

and when the ladybugs chain me to the them,

I shall feel their budding leaves in my hair,

their stems in my veins,

and their roots in between my toes.

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