One night you will roll
to your left and wake up deaf
to nightingales.
You suspect no sabotage
in sleep and I’m cranky.
That fainting episode last April,
face smacked to the planks of the
living room floor, unclear which side
of the Ohio you lived on?
Not a whisper of credit.
Three paramedics at the door,
doubting you as modern medicine
perpetually doubts women,
poking instruments down your throat.
I made you spit pondwater.
Some days I’m weary
of all this holding up, walking
on gravel with improper shoes,
hair parted, heart
a regular metronome.
Some days I dream
of taking my leave, hoping
if I wear you down you’ll let me eat
processed dairy in peace.
If we wake together in the morning,
put a hand on your abdomen
and note the galaxy it holds.
Stroke your shoulder
and revere its ball and socket
like a hymn.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 28, Issue 4.
Christy Prahl is the author of the poetry collections We Are Reckless (Cornerstone Press, 2023), With Her Hair on Fire (Roadside Press, 2025), Catalog of Labors (Unsolicited Press, fall 2026), and The Grocery Pageant (Nixes Mate, pub date TBD). A multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her past and future publications include Poetry Daily, the North American Review, Arkansas International, Midway Journal, Salt Hill Journal, and others. She was a featured poet on the Hive Poetry Collective podcast, and two of her poems have been scored by post-punk musicians. She splits her time between a small workers’ cottage in Chicago and a refurbished Quonset hut in southwest Michigan.
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