Reve Rubio
Girl as Grave
Sometimes I think of the girl as the grave.
Tell me more about that. I mean
sometimes I think of the girl as in
the grave, a corpseflower, a closure,
a full cleave and splinter, a wound in the
earth, a chokehold of dirt and feathers.
Do you mourn her? Same way you’d mourn
roadkill, a bird you’ve just run over.
Do you miss her? Same way a bullet,
any bullet, misses the moon.
Two universes over
I dreamt it would be lightning,
or thunder.
Another, murky water.
Another yet,
a wet kiss on the pavement,
a faltering crescent moon.
​
You think it would have happened regardless. The body does
what the body wants. Sometimes I think of
myself as outside the body— a worm in the mouth,
a buzzing gnat or two, a swarm of pustules
and corpuscules, an unwelcome crawl
under the skin. I think of myself as disgusting,
revolting, a ruin
in the simplistic scheme of things.
​
Parasitic,
I guess you’d call it.
Do you think of it that way?
​
Do you think of it that way? Names are
powers,
they’re arrows that point
wherever you aim them.
Sometimes, it’s a bullseye.
Sometimes you miss.
And sometimes you mourn.
Tell me more about that girl. Ask another.
Ask the wound she left. Ask the wound I wear.
I don’t speak for the girl, no one
speaks for her. She is a closure.
She is a grave. She is a ghost
of lightning, thunder, and
dark, dark water.
She is an absence of earth.
That speaks enough.
Ask me. Can’t you
see me, eyes and
mouths and all? Can’t you
call me,
one name, any name
at all?
deposition: wrongful deathmy father was finethree weeks before he died(or so the doctors say)not what happenedor why or anythingbut Sorrynow they ask meto craft a narrative—was he a religious manhow many drinksper week would you sayyou were close (yes or no)who was he to you—he was a man of excessWake Up Little Susie played for weeks& there were vegetable trays& vegetable traysbecause I said once I liked themas a child, I groanedbut I dream of bright greensport coats, shoes, tiesobscure wordstoo wide for their lines
A few words from the Entity wearing her Mouth
yes I killed her, but could you
blame me? who wouldn’t
sharpen their teeth for a bruise
like this, the shade of sweet–
dark sea in a storm, a wolf–
like blossoming? She didn’t
know what to do with all
these teeth, kept biting back
at the wind. She was scared
of something under the skin,
was scared to death of me.
and who wouldn’t be? some–
times the rot is far too much,
and too fast. surely you would
be afraid if you pressed at the
flesh in your arm, watched it
give&give and give and ask
for nothing (but you) back,
saw it darken with waves of
imminence— some tenderness
that aches beyond the bone.
I don’t think you knew what
you were mourning, if you did
why haven’t you found my
body? you must be waiting
for her to come back, girl–
whole, washed and holy by
ocean, her one tongue covered
in salt. or you want her to fall
hard and fast from the sky,
cradling her ramshackle wings
and saying she will not fly again.
If this is your worry, it is
misshapen— deformed by
her own frantic hands. She
set fire to the girl called it
kindness, and you believed it.
how do the ashes taste, I ask?
are you worried about her, or
are you worried for what it
all means for your lungs? truth
is she never made it out of her
forest. if she comes back to you
it will be wraith-like, and in
pieces—the pounding on your
door, the splinter in your
teeth, the parasitic sinkhole
in your stomach. She was gone
as soon as she had our name
on her tongue, sharp as knives.
She ran to the woods one night,
wanting the moon— nothing
but the moon.
REVE RUBIO (they/any) is a sometimes writer, sometimes physics major based in Manila, Philippines. they enjoy writing about bodies: whether heavenly or earthly, monstrous or mechanical, purely theoretical or deeply physical. their writing has previously been published in HEIGHTS Ateneo and is forthcoming in #Ranger magazine and orange juice magazine, among others. you can catch glimpses of their work on their instagram @eig3ng1rl.