Today, if I am to knock on my lower stomach,
a resounding sound will reveal to us the hollow parts in answer.
November full moon.
I have fallen asleep on one of my hands so often, I am convinced I will wake up one day and never feel it again.
It will become another piece of me that doesn’t always work, along with the clicking jaw, cracked teeth and the lesions slowly forming in my gut. I try not to make eye contact with this all at once. I light myrrh incense and force myself into the kitchen. Classing the act of passing through rooms as lifting veils of intention. I eat a chunk of ginger before consuming anything else that day; this is for its anti-inflammatory properties. Unsure in the belief this is curing, but something has to give.
Behind my belly button, there is a body that doesn’t work.
Wishing directly has ceased effectiveness.
One day, I will be walking around with an arm hanging by my side as a metaphor for something else.
Spattered with the uncomfortable reminder of my carelessness,
I compare mould to inconvenience often.
I do not think of moss as uncomfortable growth, and I have remained fascinated with it. Lucky. Today’s moon is the mourning moon, and I feel it is essential I pay it ode, lest it offer me something else to be in grievance about.
November’s full moon is also known as the deepest, darkest moon.
As I try to meet it with my eyes, I see darkness and orange-tinged light pollution.
I have beseeched the moon from both bay window and the bedroom. I get the same answer each time.
You are lucky to pass from one room to another.
Feeling like a house not strong enough to support a hammock, not always being brave enough to commit to the act. Say: I found the beams,
this isn’t going to fall.
This involves knocking on the wood and checking for the hollow parts. I’d rather be trying to see positives about unfortunate growth. I’d rather be staring at moss formations near archives on the side of busy roads. On a good day, I’m hanging hammock strings from my arms and trying to keep the whole thing afloat. This is the incorrect season for this.
This belongs between palms, under a beaming sun.
Behind another veil. In the kitchen with the bowl of ginger.
The warmth it provides in an aftertaste.
Today, if I am to knock on my lower stomach,
a resounding sound will reveal to us the hollow parts in answer.
If I speak it with enough intention, it will become an incantation.
Perhaps this will subside.
There’ll be a wave of audio, and I’ll wake up in the morning to a new moon,
autumn sunshine, a fruit bowl full of fruit,
and moss,
moss
climbing the walls.
Jodie Whitchurch (she/they) is an art writer, prop maker, and scenic artist based in Glasgow and Nottingham. They are currently studying MLitt Art Writing with the Glasgow School of Art. She had her debut poetry collection, Haven’t the Foggiest, published in 2022 by Big White Shed and has also been published by Big Red Cat Zine, The Yellow Paper, From Glasgow to Saturn, and The Nottingham Horror Collective. She writes with ghosts, mysticism, and mythology, through poetry, hybrid form, and soft sculpture.
Instagram: @nottheonlyartaccount
Substack: @jodiewhitchurch