Poetry by Aberdeen Livingstone

Upside Down and Inside Out

on the baby’s head where the skull bones

still gap unfused sits an invisible crown

they speak in whispers of an upside down

kingdom, where the slimy and squalling

princeling will one day kiss lepers and addicts

I press a hand to my clavicle, the empty space 

between my heart-bones which holds nothing

that can save me, and I think that this kingdom

is both upside down and inside out, 

all space and time inverted by the force 

of insane love and a humility no one can bear— 

no one except this strange baby, spanked and wiped of mucus 

while the whole universe watches in awe

recovering gnostic 

I told you

I wish I didn’t have a body

you brought me to the ocean

where the waves bore me up

and tumbled me into laughter

with a swift swell

you took me hiking in the rain

I felt it on my eyelashes 

like the needles of the pine trees 

beaded with droplets 

you took me to the baseball field 

I heard the metal bat ring out

in a summer song

and the sweet slap of leather 

you took me to the ice cream store

the firepit and the flower shop

you took me to the moss patch

the winery and the paint aisle

you took me to the art gallery 

the food carts and the ballet studio

when I was sick and every sensation a pain

you put your hand on my forehead

poured me tea and brushed my hair

you took me in your arms

and said, what kind of a life is that? 

Aberdeen Livingstone works in development communications for a nonprofit in New York City. Her poetry has been published in Ekstasis and Solum Literary Press, and she has essays in Koinesúnē Magazine and Reactor. She writes regularly for her substack, Awaken Oh Sleeper (aberdeenlivingstone.substack.com).