in church I was told I was only good for sinking so as a child I skipped Sunday school brought a girl from class down with me and we slicked our small bodies through the vent in the door to the empty daycare sucked sweetmilk bottles meant for babies since we still were babies too the butterfly of our hips had not yet opened with short hair we still looked like little boys in the first sex dream I remember I was alone a penis hung useless between my adolescent legs unwieldy gray and hungry as a catfish I had to feed myself and when I woke I knew I belonged at the bottom of some murky depth needed a wider mouth I still don’t know whose body I belong to mine or the ones who’ve been inside it or the ones I’ve been inside desire like this should be too slippery a thing to have fins as sharp as these if you hold me by my softer parts I’ll still try to slice open your palm even when you love me right I thrash
Raye Hendrix is a poet from Alabama. Raye is currently pursuing her MFA at the University of Texas in Austin, where she serves as the Web Editor for Bat City Review. She was a finalist for both the 2018 Keene Prize for Literature and the 2018 Fania Kruger Fellowship in Writing, and received honorable mentions for poetry in both Southern Humanities Review’s Poetry Prize in 2014 and AWP’s 2015 Intro Journals Project. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Southern Indiana Review, The Chattahoochee Review, Shenandoah, The Pinch, Cherry Tree, and elsewhere.