My knees and my chest are well acquainted,  
but when I first left the womb, they spent a decade

separated. 

Even though fetal position felt familiar,
my body was too active
to pause,  

to connect,  

to beg for the comforts of a fluid sac
that once offered safety, a shield
from the outside world,
from the inside of my body.   

For a decade, my body remained rigid,
my spine like an oak tree
sprouted from a cracked acorn
that managed to survive in soil
void of nutrients and desperate for sunlight. 

For a decade, I knew what it meant
to be a child free from the waxy coating
that makes a newborn shimmer
and waft an intoxicating scent,
the remnant odor of both solace
and solitude.  

By the time I reached fifteen, my knees
became desperate for proximity
to the beating in my heart,
to the rhythm and safety each beat offered me.
By fifteen, something in the back of my mind
begged for a return to the only place
I ever knew without pain— 

for a return to the only waters
I could swim in without drowning,
for a return to the only version of my body
that didn’t fail me.   

---

Alicia Swain (she/her) is a feminist poet and fiction writer with endometriosis living in Richmond, VA. She has an English BA from Penn State University and an English MA from Eastern Illinois University. Her debut poetry collection is coming out in 2025, and her work has been published in Half and One, The Vehicle, The Closed Eye Open, and Cathexis Northwest Press.

Website: aliciaswain.com

Instagram: @aliciamswain

Bluesky: @aliciamswain

Facebook: @aliciamswain