Poetry by Breana Kruithoff

John Brighenti CC




After the Cutting

I shed what is no longer mine--
the hunger handed down
like heirloom lace,
the thin ideal
like wire
tightening my ribs,
the old script that pared me down.
I bloom--
in the ruined soil,
where the spade split me open,
in the dirt where the roots
were torn out
and the sky stared
and did nothing.
I bloom--
nothing miraculous here.
Just something that lives
because it does.






The Red Insistence

I’ve seen what hunger does--
how it sharpens the face
into a weapon,
how it hollows the eyes.
I know the cult of less.
I know the altar.
No.
I want appetite
without shame.
Let the world keep
its pale saints.
I will not worship disappearance.
I will not make a home
in starvation.
I choose the living thing--
the animal truth,
the stubborn pulse,
the red insistence.
I go on.






The Scene Freezes

I hear my own footsteps
and it feels wrong
to make noise.
A wheel squeals
and every face turns
at the same time.
My throat feels full
and I haven’t eaten.
I pass three women
held in a doorway
and something in the scene freezes.
I don’t know what to do
with my hands.
I don’t know what to do
with my eyes.
Everything is still here--
but it tastes like
the aftermath.

​


Breana Kruithoff is a writer based in the Midwest. Her work explores grief, longing, and the aftermath of survival.




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