Lindsay Reamer

Tree Bark

fish hooked
in flesh

water logged
in breath

wanting to
find what

want is
what but

i’m stuck
like a moon

to a


rings trace the

like scars of

i too
will blood the

to hide stitches

to move

ad feminam

Don’t interrupt me he says as he takes another sip of beer. His muscles are almost as big as his insecurities, yet he is threatened by an unreliable weather forecast. To my left, there are men on benches eating lunches. Their eyes shift towards each waist they want to wrap both hands around. Summer is their favorite season. Behind me, there are whispers of multiple men with multiple arms and multiple hands. They laugh at the thought. Hey you in the red shirt. Everywhere, objects float past: a pair of legs, a pair of breasts, an empty skin. I do not want to become one. Above, they wait for my insides to compress and vanish into a cicada shell. Relax they whisper. Don’t interrupt me.

Lindsay Reamer is a first-year student in the College of Arts and Sciences at Boston University. Besides the angsty blog she created in 7th grade, her work has never been published. When she isn’t contemplating life’s important questions, she can probably be found cuddling with her dog Billy or singing in the shower.