Wow! Ren. This poem knocked the wind out of me. That opening line, “A knot of blood / and muscle and thought,” immediately pulled me into a body at war with itself. It felt like witnessing a collision of raw biology and emotion, something primal and urgent. The uterus described as a “wall” ripping apart—chills. It made me think of how society often treats female pain as either drama or mystery, never quite real. The image of a baby tooth wedged behind the knee? So visceral, so ‘wrong ‘ in the best way. It’s like the body becomes a museum for all the things we’re told to swallow or hide.
And that fungus “split and smoking”? It’s such a wild metaphor for the rot we’re forced to carry, the parts of ourselves we’re ashamed of but can’t escape. It’s like the poem screams, *This is what they call “too much”*—the messiness of existing in a body that’s both fragile and furious.
I’m...haunted ( if that's the right word) by how the poem refuses resolution. There’s no neat “message,” just the tension of a body (and mind?) unraveling. It made me ask: Is hysteria what happens when we’re denied the right to fall apart? This feels like a rebellion against that silence. Thank you for writing something so unflinching and alive.
Oh and the form, I love it when form matches or supports the content. The lines fall like sharp blows or jolts.
Wow! Ren. This poem knocked the wind out of me. That opening line, “A knot of blood / and muscle and thought,” immediately pulled me into a body at war with itself. It felt like witnessing a collision of raw biology and emotion, something primal and urgent. The uterus described as a “wall” ripping apart—chills. It made me think of how society often treats female pain as either drama or mystery, never quite real. The image of a baby tooth wedged behind the knee? So visceral, so ‘wrong ‘ in the best way. It’s like the body becomes a museum for all the things we’re told to swallow or hide.
And that fungus “split and smoking”? It’s such a wild metaphor for the rot we’re forced to carry, the parts of ourselves we’re ashamed of but can’t escape. It’s like the poem screams, *This is what they call “too much”*—the messiness of existing in a body that’s both fragile and furious.
I’m...haunted ( if that's the right word) by how the poem refuses resolution. There’s no neat “message,” just the tension of a body (and mind?) unraveling. It made me ask: Is hysteria what happens when we’re denied the right to fall apart? This feels like a rebellion against that silence. Thank you for writing something so unflinching and alive.
Oh and the form, I love it when form matches or supports the content. The lines fall like sharp blows or jolts.
*l* love it when the more surreal poems really speak to someone! Thank you for this response!
It was a pleasure reading the poem and it's been a while since I stretched my poet brain.