woman house when i realized my art would still exist even if no one liked me, i sank ankle-deep. i felt another atmosphere atop my feet bare beneath the boards and then i feel another floor until i was a corporeal braid alone on the oaken floor. A voice disembodies as soon as it speaks, i mean sound has no gender but when i am touched in the invisible place all the air around me exists right before the moan; prearticulate as a fingertip on the uvula of an old bell. Blood amplified; the technology of the seashell injecting the heart ‘s beat back into the earshell. i can already hear what i will sound like in the future. i already know i’m going to echo. i point my toes like a ballerina made of dust dancing on dust. vince, i do not worry how much i whirl or shriek. i’m already here. i opened my mouth and out came the house.
112 | PHOEBE 48.1
Fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, and art selected for phoebe's Winter 2019 issue.