Grind Your body into a Fist
by Liv Ryan
I knew three sisters
who carved their birthright into their wrists
a family crest of dried-out
half moons
you know
blood at your fingertips
is how to season the soup
some black night
incisor meets mirror
and the body, full of salt,
bloats.
The oldest had some airy
light dappled name
I can’t remember it now
her pointer, permanently warped
stripped the top of her nail
each time it grew back
Touch it
muscle and ligature,
tooth at tendon,
I remember it now
she reached upwards,
her sleeve moved
I saw the chrysalises
waiting to hatch
Touch it