Cornellian Sonnet
The doctor has prescribed me thirty
minutes of light a day: a honeycomb
pale sun with a plug and stand. I am
inventorying my blessings: I have ten

fingers and toes, none of them broken.
The blue blooming button says smile
while October glooms into upturned
umbrellas and soggy slip-on shoes.

The first thing Eileen said was congrats;
the next, try not to jump into a gorge.
And that was a joke because she was
laughing over her cheesesteak because,

as in all good jokes, there was a woman
with my face on, courting an abyss—.
The shaved prickly skin
of his boxer chest won't stop
graphing itself onto mine,
an ugly night garment
I wake in. I still have legs
and organs, everything
I need to leave him
with his dumb mouth
shocked open. I could
reach toward the slim neck
of a bottle or a slighter
man and not be sorry.
The world would have to
forgive my imprudence.
I could sneak my garbage
body into a gleaned man's bed
like women's magazines say
I should, leave traces of
my glamor, lingerie in
bed sheets, effete amulets.
Tell me there's a body
that isn't his, that can solve
the way I want the whirring
noise of cars to come
just a little closer to
smashing the room in.
About Stevie Edwards
Stevie Edwards is an MFA candidate at Cornell University. Her first full-length book of poems, Good Grief, was recently released by Write Bloody Publishing. Her poems have previously appeared in Verse Daily, Rattle, Thrush, PANK, and elsewhere. She is Editor-in-Chief of Muzzle Magazine.