I want to cover it with a book jacket. I want 
to hide the chicken breasts and scattered 
breadcrumbs of my recipe poem from the 
prying eyes of critics with ulterior motives. 

Arthritis creeps into my weary collection 
while it sits alone in a corner, withdrawing 
from society until I nudge it into the circle 
of light cast by lit mags and anthologies. 

The skeleton I am so embarrassed by has 
too many verses and too few punchlines, 
swinging and missing when bones crack 
too easily under the pressure of red pens. 

A thousand eyes, sightless from birth, read 
my body of work like madmen who scour 
the earth for greatness, willing to handle 
papery flesh but unwilling to identify soul.  

The silver tongue of hope/fear seals every 
virtual envelope I have never needed as 
I click submit in a digital forest of heavy 
paperless boughs insisting they’ll consider. 

Erika B. Girard is currently pursuing her M.A. in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry through SNHU. Originally from Rhode Island, she derives creative inspiration from her family, friends, faith, and fascination with the human experience. Her work appears or is forthcoming in The Alembic, Edify Fiction, Iris Literary Journal, Sandhill Review, Wild Roof Journal, and more.