Things we Remove
This hell must have a name or a place to come
from. Maybe that’s why they take out
the appendix–create a space for the hot coal
we make of our lives and lay to rest in our
bellies. There could be gain–the resin
of burnt body parts could thatch the roof
in a pinch. Or maybe this is the reason,
the reason I’m kneeling before you
god of memory. Maybe I drive the hot poker
into my own belly, and nothing’s there but a hole.
*
Hannah Schoettmer’s writing has appeared in The Louisville Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, SOFTBLOW, and elsewhere. She lives in Los Angeles.
What a powerful poem and a huge congrats on getting nominated for a Pushcart. Best of Luck.