I'm riding the train 
the day after Thanksgiving 
and I have no idea 
what I need. I would like to plague November 
as though it were a city. Wrap 
my legs around a sculpture. 
Pet a Labrador. Visit a field 
in which everybody is there 
for the sole purpose 
of being alive. Sometimes 
a mountain is a tree is the lamp 
on the platform. Please. 
No more food. Just mugs 
of broth. Flour lingers 
on my thumbs, permanent as a scar 
that is the shape of a rabbit. I'm not learning 
much these days. I'm learning that everything 
in this world 
is like everything else. I am not like you 
in that you are no longer 
a part of this world. 
The last time I saw you, 
it was April. You were wearing 
a jean jacket. It was a foggy. You were eating saltines. 
Drinking a beer. You never did 
love your body. Now, there are so many days 
when I find myself sitting, unclothed 
on the floor, between my bed and my mirror. 
I realize I too have never loved. 

Loisa Fenichell’s work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and has been featured or is forthcoming in Guernica Magazine, Narrative Magazine, Poetry Northwest, Washington Square Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, “all these urban fields,” was published by nothing to say press and her collection, “Wandering in all directions of this earth,” is the winner of the 2022 Ghost Peach Press Prize, selected by Eduardo C. Corral and forthcoming from Ghost Peach Press in 2023. She is the winner of the 2021 Bat City Review Editors’ Prize, has been a finalist for Narrative Magazine’s 2021 30 Below contest, a runner-up for Tupelo Quarterly’s Tupelo Poetry Prize, and a finalist for the Dorianne Laux / Joe Millar prize. She has been the recipient of an award from Bread Loaf Writers’ Workshop and is currently an MFA candidate at Columbia University, where she holds the Writers’ Scholarship.