3 poems by Juliana Roth

    At My Father’s Funeral

    Picture me: I wear an orange dress

    thinking I am the sun, reviving the dead

    only to mourn them. How selfish I must be, here

    his words: It’s all about language. But what isn’t?

    More: how displaced we all are.

    Lyme burrows, like a small animal,

    meager love curled at my feet after a meal

    or they say Lyme hides, the disease a swift robber

    masked as an aging man. His words again: I

    began to paint again and once again forgot. Speak this:

    Do I belong standing here? Father

    easily drifts away, then why cling paper?

    Private mourning is hard to detect. Every

    thing is coded and quiet among them --

    She clutches her battered poem,

    rubs it like a talisman. Time passes; day is used up.

    The father said angrily, “I don’t eat sweets anymore.”

    swimming breast stroke as a swamped thing

    “I run, a running man. Not a plant, but a man. But how will they

    know? How will they know I am a man unless I wear a man’s skin?”

    - Alan Moore, Saga of the Swamp Thing


    for a moment there is beauty -- there's a hole in my head

    as big as the world -- the YMCA isn’t crowded

    at 6 am I go there to change a dry, mad voice

    that whispers of Earthdeath coils my hair, capped

    I am tadpole I am fish I am a plant watch my toes

    flex against tiled wall watch my arms become water poppies

    pierce through surface tension watch I obey gravity but not here

    I propel I propel I propel

    flip my body in ways I can’t on land, aquatically alive

    I think of the rudders, fishing lures waved at my throat, the thing

    of the swamp constructs my body out of shrub, reeds, papyrus

    inhabiting that which may not seem to be alive

    my consciousness seeps out and thinks of the word suck

    I suck to my milfoil lungs the air I’ve trapped in my bulbous mouth


    in my bulbous mouth, air held captive -- savoring

    the new taste of molecules, moving through the water unnetted

    I think of the months I once lived as the woods

    writing letters to a man in a language he could not speak

    he lived in a room, investigating my disappearance, unsealed

    the letters evaporated, became my veined roots, branched

    like you, receding in our memories until they're no longer visible, my human

    hands tired from pitching tubers, like felled timber floating the Colorado, reddening

    a body is a thing that can be erased, like breasts crossed over by drowning arms

    I flattened rode out rapids flexed my muscles eroded my hips

    a swamp thing

    a girl, but tonight

    I looked into a man's eyes who seemed to see my own, glimpsed

    the abyss bubbling through the chlorine, my scent submerged


    sight submerged like scent underwater

    gliding, knowing how to forget, I thank

    rubber goggles for what otherwise may blind me

    I see, everything’s a dream when you’re alone,

    but the pull through the wall of water, the flip turn

    tumbles my body as I try to say his name

    a kind of grace I try to learn underwater

    it comes out as ah ah

    ah ah I gasp choke

    emerge to save my life, intoxicated by the motion

    we forget all the risks

    I almost became flooded by forgetting

    I almost became flooded by joy

    almost called for him where there is no sound


    I called for you, moss skin, pulsing body mantle

    igneous intrusion of southern rockies, you

    magma bursted peaks out from core, rudely

    earthtorn hands and knees on shale rock face

    I crawled the border between us, saw the line

    for what it was, nothing to be seen, unidentifiable

    another word for algae is pond scum, algae forms

    green scoundrel stealing dissolved oxygen, suffocating

    you, earthmess! -- you, bloody pollen making breath asthmatic

    your air was so thin I cried for more, and then the beauty?

    from up high, your mountains cut through water, I see

    you are stony soil, petrified, like frozen time. I command you:

    do not bring your evil into my swamp


    soil frozen, time petrified -- I think it matters to see the world for

    what it is, where we plant our feet on earth, that we become planted

    rooted, watching from 13,000 feet, asleep in the cleared path

    of pregnant mountain lions while tiny spiders drape their ribs

    in silk, know how ferocious is a mother lion with her cub

    know how she pardoned you, leafed body, sleeping breath

    in a near miss of tumbling boulders, faulted land, lizard

    who walks across your chest, look down and speak to him

    greet the nearing creature, and mean it, be wanting the same thing

    to not just survive a desert but to live there, together, if my body is

    eroded from my own movement, from the way my human limbs

    arranged at birth against me, then even bones can’t agree on representation

    we must still agree on a name for not just him, my lover, me,

    this voice you follow, but for you, green monster of my making


    you must know then that mis-arrangement is precisely the point

    the answer of course is we want our bodies

    our poems to represent the parts that spasm

    the parts that remind us this is just a pool encased in

    cement, I push off rusty tiled walls, harsh watered floodlights

    here I am in what we have made, gleeful, dancing, just afloat --

    thinking of my umbilical body, thinking of my mother’s sounds

    her infant sleep song sung from parted lips, I struggle to impose

    a structure sometimes her melody slips as she cleans, rearranges

    griha pravesh puja, the red inked footprints crossing parchment

    our new sister’s feet framed on the wall, I think that has meaning

    on the madness that churns, to celebrate a formed body’s new entry

    a home within this continent, I push off from the wall again

    I am in artificially nighted waters, what oxygenates my blood


    I oxygenate my blood, swim into midnight water -- please,

    don't go it's lonely -- what must you do with your hate

    what must you do with your hate when your object is gone

    my body their bodies the body we stand on

    what must you do with your hate, green, you have waged bitter

    and undeclared war upon the green, think of the moonlight

    think of how love is a kind of belly you can crawl into gutting

    the rain forests, mile after mile, day after day, think: jailed waters contain us

    if you want to do the breaststroke right you must remember it is the slowest move

    you are imitating a frog buried under the Sahara dusted over like the 10,000 year old

    you are soaking through to paint swimmers on a cave wall, at last I comprehend

    their stance, what the scientist said briefly forgetting herself, a chlorophyll creature

    she whispered it looks like those bodies are in flight

    that hole in her head the way

    out is


    Juliana Versus United States AKA a Love Poem

    Because I am arrogant, audacious, wanting

    a way to imagine tomorrow. Because what’s retroactive

    matters. What heals Weinstein-earth process, mothering

    for a future due to us -- utopic or not, a chance

    to be breathless, sex sweaty, crying to dream

    clarity out of theater. Our monument is for expecting

    our ever disappearing tomorrow. Do we get to intervene?

    Even this case is doomed for an ending, even this poem

    deals in matters of grey all the time. Institutions are not made for accountability, but

    to believe in a story. Wake up, Agent Orange, see what is invisible! Do we have

    the power to give you the relief you seek? The Hudson filled my basement

    and no one drowned, plus I’m white. What did they mean by Public Trust?

    Inaction is a danger itself because harms do not immediately manifest

    our point of individuation within the universe. Sustain me,

    please. I refuse my own suffocation, and yours, and yours

    are the breaths that control and facilitate our system.

    I was once told my poem was beautiful and so without merit.

    I was once told Teddy Roosevelt should mean something to me

    other than a Christian patriarch sitting for his portrait after a hunt.

    I was once told there was space for me. Here:

    I just wanted you to love me. I don’t want life to end.


    A multi-genre writer and educator raised in Nyack, NY, Juliana Roth is the creator of the web series, The University, which follows the bureaucratic failures of a university in the aftermath of a sexual assault on campus. She was twice nominated for the 2018 Best of the Net Anthology for her fiction and non-fiction. Essays, poetry, and stories by Juliana have appeared or are forthcoming in Entropy, VIDA Review, Irish Pages, The Atticus Review, The Establishment, Yemassee, among other publications.