by Frances Maychak

 I can’t believe I’m back
in your apartment

laying on the couch I
am sinking into a ghost
of myself, the me who

lay here seasons and
moons ago

resting my ankles
hopefully in the folds
of your jeans.

you are a solid, sordid whole
rooted body
base, still.
my self, cockcrow dew
daubed across the bedroom

digest: I am small,
wizened driftwood scaffolding
fallible, can’t make a fist

around you

chalk line morsels make
a gaunt floor plan
incessant hills and ridges:

the landscape of woman.

if my
body is a
place I am
A Stranger there,

despite the roads
I know so well.


by Frances Maychak