The Bounds of Girlhood

Because I was raised / in a home half-buried / by dirt in the Maine woods, / it took longer to

learn how women were liquids, / filling up sweater sets, teacups, / and garden beds. Same as a coyote, / when I left the dark of my den, / I saw the world with its drifting / scents, its paths that stream around / obstacles. The panorama seemed boundless / limited only by how far / you’re willing to wander, how calloused / your soles turn when carrying you through / the day, how

hollow you’ll allow / your belly to become. Beyond / the threshold, pines poke the abdomens of

storm / clouds and force the rain out of them. / Roots drill as deep as they can sink / their feet, stretching toes around bedrock. / In the virgin woods there’s nothing manmade / so everything blooms— vertical, horizontal, / interstitial. Tell me, why shouldn’t I take up space, probe / the

edges of the earth with my fingertips / and tongue. Liquids investigate, / know their containers by filling them, / contouring bodies to the shape. Walls / tell liquid what’s possible, / but forget she

can fill and over / run. What shape is water / when there’s nothing to contain her?

Sara Lynn Eastler is the Managing Editor for Qu Literary Magazine and a freelance contributor to the Southern Review of Books. Her poetry has recently been published in Cagibi, SoFloPoJo, Passengers Journal, Anodyne, and Lucky Jefferson. She has an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte and lives in Midcoast Maine. Instagram: @saraeastler Website: saralynneastler.com