ALAYNA POWELL
- somameishengfrazie
- May 30
- 2 min read
Updated: Jun 3
Alayna Powell (she/they) is a biracial Black writer with roots along the Southern East Coast and Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Her debut chapbook, After Forgiveness (2024), was recently published by Bottlecap Press. She is a fourth-year MFA student at the University of Alabama, where she’s also pursuing a certificate in Archival Studies and serving as the current Poetry Editor for Black Warrior Review. Find her at https://alaynapowell.wordpress.com
A POEM YOU WON'T EVER TOUCH
there is a dry patch of skin at the base of my neck, but in this poem it doesn't exist.
in this poem I wear long nails & I don’t ever ever scratch.
in this poem, the ants in my bathroom are actually pretty friendly
& I am not afraid to shower
feel the weight of water touch my skin.
in this poem I don’t check the mirror. i know what is there, what is nothing.
this poem is aware of her surroundings.
she still feels those eyelids rise & fall — sharp
wind when skin is pressed together.
this poem was a child once.
she had two knees & a flat chest & teeth
& teeth & teeth. this poem had a father who spoke very clearly.
you are not allowed to have a boyfriend.
as if she needed permission to become someone else’s.
as if she hadn’t been trapped in that wind since she could walk.
this poem was so light back then. just a little thing being looked at.
then this poem got huge tits and looked so sexy even when she wasn’t trying to.
this poem lost her girl virginity & her boy virginity & then this poem just kept on losing.
the first time this poem orgasmed, she wasn’t sure what had happened to her.
this poem figured that out way later.
like the time that boy fucked her & slapped her & said
you know you can’t tell anyone about this right?
this poem heals so slowly, leaves a thick trail of slime in her wake.
she had to just let that happen until she wasn’t ashamed anymore.
now, this poem is all grown up.
this poem has poems swimming inside her.
she does not feel bad
about killing those ants.
one day, I'll forgive this poem.
WHAT THIS BODY KNOWS TO BE TRUE
• I am sixteen when the doctor asks if I’ve tried eating less.
• She doesn’t ask about my knee injuries, or all those months I couldn’t walk.
• She doesn’t know that it will happen again and again.
• I will have three knee surgeries before I graduate high school.
• I will gain weight.
• I am two-hundred-and-sixty-five pounds as I write this.
• I am angry at my own shame
• & afraid to get dressed every morning.
• Everyone keeps telling me to love my body.
• My white friends keep telling me I’m beautiful.
• I tell them to take my picture from the waist-up.