me, stochastic[1] and riverine—

a watershed body. beavers build

temporary dams inside my large

intestine. I am no agent. I am

only acted upon. sometimes ecologists

pry apart my arteries with latex hands,

inspect my perpetual motion blood

machine. inside brackish waters new

species bloom—a microbiome of

fauna in my blossoming gut. I am

a transgression in the shape of an

ongoing flood. my river mouth does

not ask for forgiveness when the levees


[1] Phenomena that cannot be predicted by existing knowledge.

my torso, in all its divine incarnations

all quiet on this chest turned front.

here fleshy, there taut. curves and

their meanings not born but taught.

arms raised above my head flattens

my breast to an androgynous ovoid

crest. my jaw, if turned at a point

under the right light, could be

a knife-edge and not just a keeper

of bones. the circumference of his

hands can fit around my meridian

waist. here, rounded. there, hard.

I am a blouse turned inside out,

raised edges along the seams

a revolt in so many words.

they teach you to draw women

with circles and men with squares.

draw me with a shape we’ve yet

to name. my body is prelapsarian,

blushing fruit left unplucked.

there are no names here, no adam

to category and classify. this

body is leviathan, yawning with

rows of waiting teeth.

did you know that half of you

is made of alien microbes, sister-

sons of the big bang immortal. wade

into my tidepool as coral gnaws at

the sides. I am sentiment and

sediment and psychosis in a gut.

I am a fraction of a limitless whole.

with you, I am just as small but

somehow take up the entire room.


I spin just for an instant then fall still. press play and

cue a timelapse study of the notorious night-blooming rose.

the entire time I unfold I’m thinking of

the wilting that will come later.

fanning outward, facing the invisible sun.

 I’m beckoning for a witness.

I’ve heard there’s a chance I’ll reappear next season but

what is a probability if not a halfway lie?

they’ll say the poor thing couldn’t even bear fruit. they’ll pull my postmortem petals and ask who loved and who not.

I am bursting into my full wingspan while the gods shake their heads. this overgrown body begins to eat itself head to tail. my vessel was not meant to hold so tight. I understand the price and the circle but it still hurts. it hurts.

but did you see me there, for just an instant, birthing myself out of nothing, blooming then dying so soon but never not not. I swear to you, I was there the whole time.

My name is Mya Alexice. I cherish the opportunity to have you all read my poetry. I’m a current MFA student at Rutgers-Newark, a writer at Book Riot, and a reviewer at Kirkus. My poems can be found in several publications such as The Raven’s Perch, Quarto, The Legendary, 4×4, Echoes, and more.