By Thea Goodrich


is what I would ink on my wrist
if I had the nerve for etching
(or more precisely, permanently,
no nerves in me at all).

my left wrist, probably, and askew,
the notch between bowl and stem
of and per se and as the arrowhead
at the delta of a ghost-blue thread.

curling my hand heartward
it might shyly hide in folds,
pressing deeply, so succinctly
into neophytic skin.

pale and bared in receiving alms,
deceiving despair, it may remain plainly
a contradiction of itself,
the abbreviation of continuance.

whispered, compressed, ever-present,
this ligature leans forward in flesh,
a pair of characters embedded,
silently saying please persist

and the list goes on.
and the rest will follow.
and these things too.
and so forth, and so forth,
and so, forth.


THEA GOODRICH is living a post-grad English major's dream as an editorial assistant for the Norton Critical Editions. Proficient in copy-editing manuscripts and color-coding spreadsheets, she is also a darn good cookie baker. Her claim to poetic fame (broadly defined) in adulthood (five years' worth) is winning the John Crowe Ransom and Academy of American Poets prizes while at Kenyon College, where she also wrote humor pieces for student blog The Thrill. She has now resided in Brooklyn for a year but misses Ohio more than she ever thought she would. Unused to writing about herself in the third person, she is having trouble stretching this paragraph to the requisite two-hundred words and would gladly welcome a New York adventure buddy to help broaden her biographical horizons.

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