The Body as Some Holy Thing

The sunset’s reflection in the mirror scatters rainbow light across my floor, and it reminds me of the  stained glass lining cathedral walls. I find someone in the mirror who is me, but is not me, all hips and  long hair. I am holding garden shears. Trying to cultivate something on an inhospitable landscape. I see  the cracks beginning to show when he calls my name. I dig in. There is something hidden here. When I  peel back the layers, there is greenery. Limbs turned to branches reach out to tap the cool glass of the  mirror. Water pours from my heavy lips, and it is clear and smooth like a creek. And from my eyelids  sprout dahlias with petals folding into each other for what seems like eternity. Everything I see is gold  now. I leave my home, skin turned to aspen bark peeling from me like paper. What should I write on it? I find myself in a new town among others with birds building nests in their hair and butterflies nestled  against the flowers sprouting from their chests. My chest is a spiderweb, each string delicately placed,  but unbreakable. The spider works at it each day, its dainty legs spinning the silk. One day, it may cover the whole of me. Four churches’ bells ring out when the clock strikes the next hour. It is a cascade of  song, each starting slightly later than the last. The sun is setting and I am warm and it is spring. My  fingertips are beginning to bloom with little flowers blue, pink, and white. 

About the Author

River Reid (he/they) is a queer and trans artist specializing in poetry and memoir, photography and collage. He’s from Oregon originally, but now lives, goes to school, and works in Philly.