Poetry from Zosia Mosur

Violently Sterilizing the Growing Tree

I massaged the beach
from my scalp
with hotter water
then the split tips of my hair are used to.
And out of fear,
they coiled in tight spirals
that haloed my head.

I rinsed my night
of missed-busses
and tear-covered phones
from my burning cheeks.
And rigid lungs.

From my static breath grew
a stronger sob,
whose rain I rinsed
gone, once again.

I scrubbed my chest

with steel wool and clawing nails,
and from the etches in my untouched
skin, tissue lumped together
forming breasts that I learned
to hide.

I scraped bone from my nose and chin
and from a raw skull
calcified features that I learned
to graze under my fingers.

From picked lips
words spat
whose sound I began to sculpt
and worship.

I became myself
in the bathroom
where I deconstructed a premature body.
Sprouting from the nubs
of cut branches,
grew a person whose sound
I worship.