Monica Rico

Self Study as a Snow Globe

How often
our bodies shift
and are not in charge
of little things.
I am told the greying
of my hair looks nice
as if a surprise, as if it
was intended to do otherwise.
My hair, the one thing I control
underwater, almost still, as a developing
wave looks still in an expanse of sea.
Who am I to define these hands
that pull the rubber band, let my hair
lick my neck and elapse.

I cannot conceive
of water as contained, 
like when I see
the universe in sheets
of flat paper
that say,
this is how
we make sense of things.

Because I have yet
to be sea sick, which means
my body is filled with mystery,
that it is there because
someone told me so.

When the power goes out
I spark a match, 
create fire to cradle
my dinner, my wine
that is my desire
to sip, swallow, 
and repeat after
the first time I make
my glass preserve me
with an imprint of my lips and breath.

Without wind the bugs stand on water.
They too, are bored, 
hot, and not interested
in idle conversation.
I count the flies and wonder where
they sleep when the lake
and sky only reflect each other.

Everyone seems to think
we will go on forever;
we will not.
We will bend
as space bends
and take everything
down to our breath
when we say, water. 
It is waiting to cover us all.



MONICA RICO is the author of Twisted Mouth of the Tulip (Red Paint Hill Publishing, 2017). She lives in Michigan and writes at