by Casey Reiland
The space between the sternum and the slope of flesh
says so much. Here, a quarter, shiny like macadam in the morning sun, now thrown
at her chest. A boy says, Look at how it slides right over her middle. Boarded, flat, fabled.
This too a fable: Lavender. Tea tree oil. How many times have I written about
what my body could not give? Instead, consider my grandmother, her torso
gaping like mine. My sister insists we inherited our breasts from her,
and I’ll admit this once would have split me of resentment—
girl who wants to take up space, who wants to be enclosed perfectly into someone’s fist.
Always myself witnessed in another’s eyes, a mark, a haunting, ruptured ribs
in the canyons of their irises. But in my grandmother’s ripening, I now behold how
we are bound, hanging on to what we still can, cupping the curves of each other’s hands.
The thing we contain: a sphere of silver, spinning like a coin.
Casey Reiland’s work has appeared in Autofocus, HAD, trampset, On the Seawall, and elsewhere. She is a recent graduate of the University of Wyoming’s MFA program. She resides in Somerville, MA, and you can find more of her work at caseyreiland.com or her latest musings at @caseyreiland.bsky.social.
Emerge Literary Journal 