i drape myself out over the powerlines to dry and hope that you can see me swaying
by Amanda Pendley
the way to keep a lifeless body upright
is not to prop her against the gurgling belly of a wall
but to curl her over herself and let her limbs dangle
lay her over the arch of the couch
raise the swing to set two feet off the ground
and let her float in halves
throw her over your shoulder as you carry her higher
and she will memorize the bruises of her kneecaps,
the way the spine cradles the subject
how gravity told her to cut her hair
to avoid being stepped on, how she is hefted
with the same grudge as a spare tire
when she mourns her losses she mourns in doubles
what happens and what happens when she remembers
it is easier to saw herself in two than have to live it twice
fold her hamburger style twice then hotdog once
bring her shoulder blades together until her ribs
are forced to not break even
tuck chin to collarbone, knees to chest
heels to upper thighs
and toss her in the dryer
mid-cycle, remember
that you’re supposed to hang dry your delicates
take her to the backyard
let her be an unfurled banner that has not been inscribed dead
and leave her until she drip dries into the dirt
until flowers bloom under her feet
About the Author
Amanda Pendley is a queer twenty-one-year-old writer from Kansas City who is currently studying Creative Writing and Publishing at the University of Iowa. Her recent and forthcoming publications include Homology Lit, Vagabond City Lit, Savant Garde Literary Magazine, and The Shore. She often finds inspiration in Lorde songs, movement, and Harry Styles’ suit collection.