Easterners

By: Savannah Rivas

Her mouth gurgles with marbles

that she plucked from her belly,

and I realize too late

               that fish sprout in place of teeth

               not pearl, but rubber

               adrift in her gums

I wonder

If I bit open her throat

               steered this knife over thin flesh

               made it praise me as I drew

               wonders of two slopes

                                haunted by milk

--what would tumble from her?

It would be marbles, something

fragile and strong,

until her body

swamps the unit, glass

---

Savannah Rivas is an aspiring scholar in the field of cognitive science. Having received a bachelor's degree in linguistics, she enjoys studying language as both a machine and an art form. She currently divides her time between the fiery summer city of Albuquerque and the soft winter city of Santa Fe.

"This poem came about during a prolonged hospitalization for a chronic illness. I had been accustomed to working with the medical faculty in an eastern wing of the hospital, becoming familiar with the professionals -- doctors and nurses in particular -- who worked in this half of the hospital. When I was briefly transferred to the western wing, I felt within me a gurgling, a disruption, a nervousness. 'Easterners' is primarily about the fear and agony of a new terrain, both in a literal sense and a psychological one. I wrote the poem, pen in hand, chewing on the plastic body, sitting on my always-unmade bed. The lower body of the piece came quickly, though edits on the first stanza occurred over a number of weeks."