I am talked out and heavy with the world, an old
Man’s pipe smoke dream curving the line of a woman’s

Hip up, up, up. Don’t fall. My feet are rusted iron
Weights so I buy new shoes of oiled leather like the crook of a man’s

Neck, soft friction, my stockings
Bear the loveblood stains. The humming blisters heal

Rigid. My throat is a hive of bees, their needles shoot poison.
Addict ritual. I swallow black tea leaves and spoon

Honey with my fingertips perched like a thrush in the sun. They want
To know what it’s like—my song is a hook in my lungs,

Tearing through flesh, tendons, and veins of a river
Whose estuary I bathe in daily. My hair, Hephaestus’ net, catches

Sharp toothed creatures and I pry pearls from their jaws
To take the place of my eyes. The lives of men play

Out before me and all their secrets lay
On their backs, naked and shaking.

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Julia Hill is a music photojournalist living in New Jersey and can be found most nights in Philly covering a show. Her debut poem “Monopoly on Death,” was featured in the 2024 October issue of The Lake. Julia’s poetry focuses on the dynamics of womanhood, nature, and love.