The following poem was originally published in The Groke Literary Magazine, Issue 2: Growing Through Concrete in October 2025.
I learned early to swallow the knotted weight of my needs, to nod along with you, and laugh quickly. The yesses I don’t mean, they crust over this body like I met Medusa myself in the mirror. Some days I catch a glimpse of myself too clearly, and recoil, caught off guard by a heavy-footed stumble catching on nothing but choked air. It settles in like construction-dust between the monoliths I made. My own choices. They turn me into something else. Like stone. Silent as the grave. My mouth a closed casket. Writhing thoughts. One ophidian tendril at the temple curls down around my throat. An arrowhead slips into my ear softer histories; I suddenly remember that sidewalks, inevitably, crack. It lets the light slip in. Bequeath upon me, finally, the flesh that rots. Give me a hammer. Let me crumble. One eye unblinking, the other a wood rose. I will not stand for you anymore. Make way for a reclamation of self, for snakes warming themselves in the grass. A weighted blanket of moss, simmering mushroom soup. I only nod with wild onions. I do not wish to speak, so I say so. I see myself only in the raging river, which makes and unmakes me. Still the forest breathes me in. I am in pieces. I am alive.
- Elzada James -
