Tara Boswell

Sandy {The She That Explodes}



Hi you don’t know me but I fucked your OBGYN in the labor room

and no one has changed the sheets. I fucked the blue jelly stress ball your

mother-in-law gave you to squeeze.Your mother-in-law. I fucked her, too.


I fucked open the fault line along the junk of land where your hubby resides.


A shaking fist in the air, now at your side.

I fucked your fist.


My monster belly grows bigger by the minute

and you’re like fuck, where will I sleep now.

I’m so sorry but shush your mouth.


Your Old Country Roses tea set I’m fucking all over.

I fucked your grandmother’s recipe for stuffed artichokes and a Sunday gravy.


He has a dream:

A virginal OBGYN pulls a wet screaming hero child out of you and I

fuck that dream too.


When I fuck, his REM cycle explodes all over the nurse’s rubber smock—she

turns her head one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, says hello gorgeous in his voice.

I promise you’ll never wake up.

The Surgeon Said Miraculous



you would say I sleep too late

rough finger the locked knob till that old door gave

every time I turn to wipe your spit

from my mouth before it dries

(that’s me in repose under cream

sheets going through sleep motions)


years later the surgeon says lucky guy

and I wretch because you’re still

alive and I’m dying in public


mister only here will I name you—


how to pick the knots

of these thick

stitches and re-

machine them:


revisit that sweat

strain my little reach

across your heavy arm

oiled in the dip of my chest


fingernail the swollen

blood button in your brain

till that old sore burst

then tuck you in

disconnect the phone lines


TARA BOSWELL is a New Jersey native who lives and writes in Chicago. She is an Assistant Poetry Editor for both  Phantom Limb Press, and the online literary journal Ghost Proposal. Her work is published or forthcoming in Salt Hill, PANK, Heavy Feather Review, ILK, Parcel, and elsewhere.