At nineteen, I was recovering from the sudden departure
of my menstrual cycle—the tenderness of my breasts, the fullness
of my figure. So long I’d felt like a moss specimen,
able to survive on air and sun, belonging to no one.
If a wind unfixed me from my fence post, I might soar
toward the next damp dune, be a landing bed
for that night’s reflections.
But I was confronted with a different root system:
red stems steering me earthbound.
I felt them grow, claiming
my life for a different purpose.
How I could have sunk my heavy hips
onto those swollen spores—asexual,
landless, but for their need to live—
let them bear my body whole.
–
Sonya Schneider is a poet and playwright with San Diego roots. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Catamaran, MER, Moon City Review, Naugatuck River Review, Potomac Review, Raleigh Review, Rust & Moth, Sky Island Journal, SWWIM, and 3Elements, among others. A graduate of Stanford University and Pacific University’s MFA in Poetry, she lives in Seattle with her family.