the tulips bloom & i am
reminded how easy it is
to fill a bed. how easy
to make your own food,
to photo-synthesize, to un-
synthesize as if we had
never been together at all.
soon i forget the smell
of highway from your
passenger seat, teach
myself to drive stick, call
my own name with teeth
bared, the shape of bulbs.
every year the tulips bloom
but someone has to plant
them, someone must always
plant seeds between the lips
of the ground, open, wanting.
when you first left i ate only
soil for seven days, hoped
to become earth, to stretch
through the land between me
& you. now i wear my own
petals & forget the color of
the tulips outside your window
as if i had never seen them at all.
& yet, there are tulips, there
are highways we never drove,
there is something to bite down
upon even when my teeth taste
like tulips corrupting my own
mouth, when i thought i was
only cavity & suddenly clean.
how easy to flower, to un-
fill a bed, to keep wanting
synthesis. how wondrous to dis-
connect as proof of once coming
together, to ripen, to know
your own name enough to call it.
tulip, i say, & how wondrous to feel
anything at all.

COURTNEY FELLE is a sophomore at Kenyon College. Her writing currently focuses on the landscape of queerness, illness, and gender, & can be found in Rag Queen PeriodicalChautauqua Literary Journal, & Brain Mill Press, among others. In addition to writing, she edits Body Without Organs Literary Journal & campaigns for congressional candidates.