My Body is the kind that doesn’t know a good thing when she has it: fair skin without lines, thick sheaf of hair without silver threads. She is ruthless, sometimes precognitive in dreams: when the blood came she made sure I saw it first in sleep. Now that it’s gone, she sends me phantom-limb images of scarlet wings on cotton, as though she can’t quite believe it will never come back. In my youth I was unkind to her. I fed her sugar and honey with nothing substantial, I kept her awake for days and berated her when she had the audacity to feel weak. I handed her over to people who mistreated her. I had always wanted to be a mother but I never saw what a dreadful caregiver I could be. I couldn’t even give her water when her very bones were dry. Now I want better for her. With age comes the wisdom that her failings are my own so I check in every day, keep her hydrated, pet her cheek and whisper that everything will be okay. I tell her I’m proud of her and what I would do for her-- even give up sugar and honey in exchange for an offering of blood.
Amanda Crum is a writer and artist whose work has been published in Barren Magazine, SmokeLong Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, and more. In 2021, she was the recipient of the Diana Woods Memorial Award for Creative Nonfiction. Amanda lives in Kentucky with her husband and two children.
Rough Diamond Poetry 