ANNA GAYLE

still

I save instagram posts of stomachs with razor-
sized slits, bruised with complementary colors,
and leaking. I say be still, be still when I mean
be stuck. bottlecap hot-glued to yarn, be ornamenting
the local coffee shop window. primary color paint
on kindergarten teacher skirts, be unloved in my closet.
be snarl in the pocket of my pelvis, that—snare tooth
whisper, deep-tissue—rooting—be holding—held
back—be reservoir—sink full of cherry—bloom,
come quickly, seep and seep—be fist turned
winged thing. seep through cotton and paper and
shoulder blade—be born—quickly—still—be bursting.

Anna Gayle is a poet, educator, and artist whose work is interested in black womanhood, collective femininity, and chronic illness. Her poems have been published, or are forthcoming, in Gulf Coast, Cider Press Review, CALYX, Rogue Agent, The Mantle, and Thimble Lit Magazine. She received her MFA from Oregon State University and is the author of the chapbook “a body is not a sky” (Bottlecap Press, 2025).