In this way, the body is built to be forgotten: there

are cells in the heart that make their own

rhythm; even brainless, they march on. So

I know a thing about unstoppable forces, how

momentum truly pushes more than pulls, but

as a little girl, I lassoed sunlight across the yard

so that the moon could rest. I called on the floor to

creak at the fourth-to-last step, a shriek for

an ascent almost complete. In college, I coaxed

a stray bus to stop—the driver looked down at me as I floated

up from my luck and suddenly the cord pull

knew my street. I have seen a pulsing, bloody life

cord and cut it; lifted a healthy liver from a dead and

starchy body; hung up swinging, pennied keys.

I have learned my birthdays’ worth of contradictions: sharp

shooters slow their hearts to aim straight, rotten apples fertilize

award-winning ground, sublimation allows solid things to

evaporate before our eyes, and I

climb out of bed with you.

Lydia Buzzard is a medical student and writer raised in Western KY. Her work (Pithead Chapel, Overheard Magazine, Stanchion Zine) has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. You can visit her on X at @lydiabuzzard.