Wet by Ella Bartlett

I was pregnant last night and then I wasn’t, my head my feet my walk to the bathroom and then down-leaning lacing with water and summation, frailty coming with the termination of my life and my kind and I am no longer wanted, halfway. Whose mammoth can be housed inside me and whose mountain can I hold with these hands? How am I supposed to breed premonochromatically and reap with meaning and weep in small batches when in need, I say, creep and keep over when you feel you want to keel over. When hands hinge higher and no one will fall into them, the rain and its meandering slow emancipation of my skull, rendering itself genderless, regressed and loved without thought. I wanted to guard this and become vesselled and to float in my own water, breaking at the last possible tide. I have said to the art on the walls that I must lay horizontal so I can wet myself with what comes out of the sky. 23

WET

Ella Bartlett