Another Body

Years later, I open a Borges
paperback and find
a photo of you
naked, washing dishes
in my kitchen. Your body
has been reduced to slopes
and angles, unrecognizable
as a new skyscraper.

When you had a mouth, you fogged
my white stomach
with words I wouldn’t find until after
you’d gone. Mine,

you said, and then

                      I’m sorry, I don’t think I can

I am convinced you never
fit inside a kitchen, convinced
if I went looking for you
now, I would find
nothing but vaulted steel
bracing the skyline,
hazy and fractured from
an immeasurable distance.

Lauren Hall's work has appeared in NANO FictionThe Conium ReviewCleaverThe Lascaux Review, and others. She was awarded the William Carlos Williams Prize for poetry at the University of Pennsylvania, where she received a master’s degree. Visit her at

Photo Credit: Kevin Day Photography

Photo Credit: Kevin Day Photography