Poetry - Issue 16 | October 2012


by Lizi


After gallbladder surgery

a plastic container filled
with what had been taken:

pebbles, round and black,
solid as obsidian. Stunning,

this new failing,
not the hushed

decay we brace for,
but excess of creation,

a pile of clinking bullets,
a collection of angry bits

forged in churn and burble.
In the hospital room a tv

suspended from the ceiling
was telescope to the world outside.

I hid in the sharp, bright teeth of stars,
I turned the volume up

instead of spelunking down
into the caverns of my body

with a flashlight and butterfly net.
History drawn upon the earthen walls within

would not be deciphered.
I refused to swim the arterial channels.

I would not rest on a rib and listen
to water lapping, acid’s cranky drip,

troglobite heart pumping blood,
wanting, wanting, wanting.

No, what I wanted was to silence
the body’s breath-constant mysteries,

to exit myself,
to speckle a path with my crag,

tiny cobblestones in the park
where a couple might stroll

with their muddy sneakers,
holding hands and

talking about the weather.

 1 2 >

About the author

Lizi Gilad’s most recent travel adventure involved zip-lining in a redwood forest. She screamed like a madwoman the entire time. An MFA candidate at UC Riverside’s Low Residency program, Lizi’s work is published or forthcoming in Amethyst Arsenic, The Country Dog Review, Foundling Review, Melusinee, and Thrush.


More in the archive »