Poetry by Arden Stockdell-Giesler

Series in Which My Body is Not My Body


On my drive home,
a rabbit and deer are cradled
together on the side
of the interstate.
The sun set hours ago
and it’s just stopped raining
so I pull over. I miscalculate
the distance between my foot
and ground, feeling wet earth
flatten under my hand
as I catch myself.
Slowly looking up again,
I feel the rabbit’s eyes on mine. I only see it for a moment,
can barely tell under the
glow of my phone’s dimmed light,
but the she has torn into the deer,
shredded flesh in teeth and
mouthfur stained red.
She looks up at me too,
just for a moment but
I swear she sees me
and her eyes in mine are
glass eyed and gentle.
I get back in my car.
My headlights make twin suns
in her eyes as I leave.


In the morning, I left an orange
on the counter for you.
Unpeeled, tender, and bright
against the granite.
I carved an inch long incision
on the side, just wide enough
to slide a torn piece of paper into.
It is a half finished poem
about your back in the sun.
I return in the evening
to find you on the counter,
paper and peel in hand.
You bite,
pulp between your grinning teeth.
I kiss you,
place my hand on
the counter to steady
the sway but my palm
finds the peel and slips,
sending my teeth crashing into yours.
I taste blood and citrus.


I walk south
from the A train
to my new apartment.
My second New York home.
The moon hangs in perpetual view,
cradled by the buildings on Rogers.
I climb to the roof when it rains
and watch beads slide down
my uneven roofing.
It’s quiet here.
This city isn’t loud, not
in a real way.
I get to hold the moon.

Arden Stockdell-Giesler

IG: @@arden.sg

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