Poetry on The Feminista
Her Pronoun is Always She
A Body in Language
I am the slow sharp
slice,
tongue cut in half to
fit inside a single room —
two halves whispering
under floorboards,
quiet hum, a split sound.
She takes my name like
hands cracking glass, she
doesn’t ask, she
makes it hers. Her mouth
is a hinge, a lock. I
am the door, swinging
open
open
against the burn of a noon sun.
We live in the walls, paper-thin,
my edges
bleed into hers,
we make
corners bend, windows stretch —
I am the
space she shapes, we
fill with words
like water
flooding
a basement, relentless.
I say “her” because the word
lands
soft
as a bruise,
grows
under the skin,
a violet
pushed up through
concrete, defiant.
They call me something else,
but her fingers
curl around me
like rope, like
the strong knot
of knowing,
and I let her pull, I
fall into the knot’s
opening.
This language is sharp —
it slices through stone, but
I am the stone, I
am the breaking, and I
am what follows the breaking,
the sound left after,
the clean cut.
We do not speak of bending,
no, we break —
and in the break, we build
a new shape,
a house with no locks,
no walls to keep
her out.
In this light, I
am her —
I am only her.
I’m Ani Eldritch, Senior Editor of The Feminista. If you identify as a woman, come, write for us! If you’re interested, here are the submission guidelines. And, of course, thank you for reading.
