{ Our Debatable Bodies – poems – Marisa Crane }

Our Debatable Bodies
poems, Marisa Crane
Animal Heart Press, 2019


Marisa Crane is a poet of the mouth. Mouth as the wound one opens to name the wounded. Mouth as flickering hyphen. As a thing not spoken for.  In Our Debatable Bodies, words like ‘tomboy’ turn yellow in the toothless boy of tomorrow and language lives long enough to land on the same suicide note. In reading, I realized that though I forgive, I perhaps do so on a budget. That though I strive to recognize, my recognition is manmade. That what I call merely a child’s costume was perhaps put on by one wearing an eyeless mask. Maybe there is no big picture, only photos taken by giants? I guess what I mean is…Crane sees. And more so, looks.


reflection by Barton Smock


book is here:

person Marisa Crane, two poems

Marisa Crane is a lesbian fiction writer and poet. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pigeon Pages, Pidgeonholes, Drunk Monkeys, Riggwelter Press, Okay Donkey, X-R-A-Y Magazine, and elsewhere. She currently lives in San Diego with her fiancée. You can read more of her work at http://www.marisacrane.org. She tweets @marisabcrane.



Wailing. Searing nerve endings. A home isn’t a home
without bodies that punish themselves. They remain silent
until the day they don’t. No one hands out earmuffs
at birth. We learn by crying. We learn by finding
what we needn’t ever find. Sometimes the medicine man
is the one that lives inside your brain. Branded like a farm animal,
I can’t forget the terror of powerlessness. What is the shape
of power? Is it anything like the form an island takes?
Isolation. Shame, misnamed. I want to lounge
in the language of self-love. Steeped in saltwater
choreography, I need to step away.
If only to shed my exoskeleton. Laying
my armor down to rest.


grocery shopping together

is an intimate experience, like peeing
in front of each other for the first time
i want to extract the excess bodies
from within your body
                the secrets of your matryoshka dolls
organic vegetables are exorbitantly priced
                i am disenchanted by everything
                but you
back home imagine me drunk
a broken crayon between my teeth
trying to scribble your name
on the coffee table
                this is a poor attempt at time travel
i want to starfish on your brain
you whisper into my mouth
                i know that you mean it               my marrow
holds itself together for you                         soft and fatty
run entirely by its id
                afraid of its own ego
when i speak to you its in thunder claps
though they are not violent
you respond with a handful of ravens
and of course i am weightless
in line                 holding the wine and beer
light as a feather             stiff as a board
the children of my past lift me
                pretend they are ghosts
i think i’ve become someone new
since being here with you