Poetry by Giovanna Lomanto

                 ​renee. CC




in this universe, i

cross my fingers. it's the closest thing to genuflecting. sometimes a pinky promise is the eucharist and sometimes a handshake is giving peace and sometimes i am not touching anyone and i am not connected to my body and that's okay too. in this universe, my body and i are friends because i don't make her do such strange things for such strange men, nor do i run from my own strange habits to appease their strange pleasures. i am strange. my body is also still strange. the crossed fingers work with her friend the long index toe. eyebrow arch has been really looking at lip scar and is content. holy matrimony abound. in this universe, my strangeness is not thought of as tall can half empty, but rather is incredibly revered by the beer drinkers. when i look at a bar, i think that all of them would love to take me home. i think that i don't have to go home with anyone. i smile with confidence and don't assume intention. i cross my fingers. 





anorexia 

they do not tell
you the secrets of
the body when
you receive one
they do not tell
you that the fore
arm goes into the
elbow or that the
men in your life
will take your body
and and and the
body is the vehicle
and they will take
your body but you
might not make
one and and and the
probability is that
they do not tell
you about the fact
that when you are
starving you are
staving off the
certainty





letter written again to my body

some days are shadowed curves,
full glasses of blurred color and 
packed joints of lightning pulse.
some days my lover tells me about
my body and i believe his generosity.
some days i think about how his predecessors
once called my body a plateau, turned on its uranus
axis. i think i am away from it. some days are those vertical
drops, those direct garbage chutes. i take a hit of vaporized indigo
and inhale my lover, tell him how all of the letters i have written
are black and white ink, no soft periwinkle or deep navy to keep
company the page. i tell him my muted acceptance of the ways
i let the terrain drive the motor. the mouth. he stops me. tells
me to talk to myself again, talk to you again, come to some
conclusion where we forget everything, every skipped meal, 
and every oversaturated step feels like forgiveness but
spurns the thought of never meeting Doris, the
nurse who brought her nail polish and a
face mask; Kam, the nurse who risked her job
to make sure that i had pumpkin body butter on
my off days. some days are handle pulls of highlighted
highballs, those drinks you forget are an uneven mixture
of deadly and drowning. some days my lover tells me that
he will be gentle when i am not. my body writes back with
thanks. my mouth. every skipped meal. every last plate i
cleaned in its presence. my lover smiles when i lick the
spoon of brownie batter. he squeezes my leg when
i scoop the crumbs. i laugh, wholeheartedly,
feeling more technicolor.




Giovanna Lomanto is a Bay Area poet and teaching artist with a passion for investigating self-liberation through the arts. An alumnus of U.C. Berkeley and a current MFA candidate at NYU's low-residency program, she finds power in education, and therefore holds a passion for delivering that same power to youth—in classrooms, workshops, and mentorships. Her work has been featured on KALW, the Worth-Ryder Art Gallery, the Flor y Canto Literary Festival, Box, and the Elevation Review. She is the author of two poetry collections: no body in particular (Scrambler Books, 2019) and jupiter fell out the sky last night (Bound to Brew, 2021). You can follow her on Instagram @giovanna_lomanto for updates on future projects. She currently resides in Oakland, CA with her friends, most notably her lionhead bunny Maggie.
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