Poetry No. 41 – Gabrielle Peterson

what was meant by woem

written in pencil on the subway window.
the faint urgency, or else he/she (she) (he)
would have waited for a pen;
graphite’s small struggle against
the synthetic sill. still, what is “woem?”
woman? womb…poem? the space between apples.
the sound a belly makes when it has nothing.
the drunken or sleep laden conviction
to say something, but say it wrong.
to announce, nonetheless,
no particular portion of pain.
nothing but the buried and creviced pit
of need. here is my woman. my womb. my woe
for you to have or not have. for you to not even know
you have the option of having.
the stately moons attached to a letter,
wrong or not wrong, they pull.


Gabrielle Peterson is a Chicago-based writer who has work that has appeared in The Huffington Post, The Literary Bohemian, Eunoia Review, Triggerfish Critical Review, Front Porch Review, Cider Press Review, Connotation Press, and Sooth Swarm Journal. She writes poems every day on the train and lives with her fat cat Penelope. More of her work can be found at www.gabriellempeterson.com.

© Gabrielle Peterson

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