Dear Alison, and: Dear Alison
- Dear Alison, and: Dear Alison
Dear Alison
“You’re very much a woman,” he saidas I stole a sip of his coke. It was no useexplaining. I once loved anatomy, the breadof musculature, the tendons. The misuse,the sprain, the strain. When was it when thattruth became clear, that jutting hips and winksdrew I’ll Remember You looks, both flat and flattering?My bio lessons ruined by male hijinks.And yet, my breasts. That woe. I agonized overtheir size, how one would always be smaller(I’d never say larger) than the other. I hoverover a petri dish in science class; the colorof the dead frog the same as LA’s worst smog.That night I would yank my unruly hair from the clog. [End Page 295]
Dear Alison
I’m reading about imaginary illness.Like the author, I have wishedfor my own fever and canker, stillnessof a bloody wound I could knit intomy self-loathe. We’ve all been there.I’ve attached unforgiving feelingsabout my own thighs, height, staredat my naked body while the ceilingsstared back, hollow roots, emptyroom, image upon image, the cove.Will the tunnel ever end? I attemptthis walking, the need that drove—still drives—woman after womanto walls. Seeking water from stone. [End Page 296]
Christine Larusso recently completed her MFA at New York University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Literary Review, Court Green, DIAGRAM, The Awl, and elsewhere.
