@article{ref1,
title="Ferragosto, and: Greece First, and: The Pediatrician, and: Fight Sounds, and: Winter: Two Mornings, and: The Under-Body",
journal="Missouri Review",
year="2022",
author="O'Bernstein, B.",
volume="45",
number="4",
pages="11-24",
abstract="After Plath The first time my body tried to kill me I was ten, wearing a white nightgown, calling through the window for my mother out in the garden. Blood was coming out of my backside again, and I didn't know what to do. The second time it happened, I was living in a family friend's empty apartment in Chelsea. The man I loved was using drugs and kept calling, crying and shouting, and I couldn't stop answering the phone. Actually, I couldn't breathe unless I was having sex with someone else, and then I could breathe fine. After cheating, I knocked a soap dish off the ledge of the bath, and it broke. My mind flashed to suicide and wouldn't let go. The next time my body came for me, I was twenty-three in Carrara in late August. My legs dangled over a marble window ledge, and at that height I could see the icy purple glicine scaling the stone houses and terra-cotta roofs. Italy had emptied out in deep August, and I bore a gnawing hunger for a man © 2022,Missouri Review. All rights reserved.<p /><p>Language: en</p>",
language="en",
issn="0191-1961",
doi="10.1353/mis.2022.0046",
url="http://dx.doi.org/10.1353/mis.2022.0046"
}