By M. Klein
When I was seven years old, I had questions. What does it mean to ‘hold your tongue’? If a throat is a long pink tunnel, how does food fall down without getting stuck? Why do I wake up in the night, silent and alone? Court Ludwick, author of These Strange Bodies (ELJ Editions, 2024) has questions of her own. The body is her primary subject, interrogated and catalogued with a range of literary forms.
Turning the pages of Strange Bodies, shards of fiberglass recognition embedded themselves in my fingertips. Court Ludwick’s collection of prose, essays, and hybrid writing deconstructs at least one body and its intricate relationship to pain. A difficult maternal relationship (“you have always echoed her”), scarred limbs, dissociation and academia coalesce into a messy blur of trauma that echoes my own. My copy is filled with red underlines.
In twenty seven discrete parts (as many as there are bones in the human hand), Ludwick skillfully reads the runes of her own white knuckles. In “If I Was A Psychic on a Blue Velvet Couch”, one of the longest sections, she uses future perfect tense to predict an inevitable ending. The writing is sharp, surgical, yet with a acerbic edge of humor.
“You will think back and know that this was coming for a long time, probably.”
“Somebody”, and its companion “Some Body” represent a before/after of traumatic dichotomy. Ludwick cracks open the spine, butterflying the story into two halves. The initial setting of a college halloween party lulls the reader with dull, thumping familiarity — until the narrator begins asking questions.
“Hey, where are her warm, brown eyes?”
…
“Are you?”
“Some Body” finds the narrator in a post-credits scene to a movie she can’t remember. A dissociative, nightmarish perspective oscillates violently from horrific imagery to surreal half-knowledge. This is the only section to utilize ALL CAPITALS, screaming off the page. (Question: Once a girl starts screaming, does she ever really stop?)
A piece called “Panic Disorder” borrows the shape of a research paper to present a detailed first-person description of the condition: “…you’ve seen your face look a little off before right? or have you?” The narrator fantasizes about removing her amygdala, excising the almond-shaped organ and taking the body’s fear with it. The theme of removal threads through the whole collection like a vein. The acrid build up of trauma and stress contributes to kidney stones, as detailed in “My Kidneys Suck”, which necessitates a different kind of surgery.
A welcome reprieve from some of the more horrific moments, “The Grove” provides a retreat into an idyllic memory. A freckled child in a sunflower shirt, the younger narrator describes safety in the boughs of a “great big oak”, a contrast to her mother’s too-tight embrace.
These Strange Bodies is also an examination of separation. (Question: Once a girl separates from her mother, does inertia take over? Do the two bodies ever stop moving away?) From the first pages, the “kerosene mother” is smoldering just outside of view. Over the course of sections like “Psychic on A Blue Velvet Couch”, “Slip of the Tongue”, and “In Case of Emergency, Break Glass”, Ludwick documents the fractures and splints in their relationship.
“My mother reminds me of the ways I’m like her. My mother reminds me of what it means to be a woman who is not perfect.”
“Every time she said the wrong word, I corrected her and smiled and relished the feeling of having the correct answer when she didn’t.”
Throughout the book, Ludwick’s questions play with reality and perception. (“Is the funny bone a nerve?”) How can blood be made into paint? Into a salve? (“You doing okay in there?”) Spin the questions in a centrifuge, now. Stars and moons slashes and doors splinter. They are all the same. Is this real to you, too? (“What if this is real?”) Does your body understand this strangeness like mine? (“But I thought he was a dead star?”) Can these questions even be answered? How can we understand each other? Do we speak the same language? (“What does your wrist say to you?”)
These Strange Bodies is a remarkable debut collection. At times both confrontational and devastatingly intimate, Ludwick showcases a formidable talent. This hybrid collection is a must read for final girls, brokenhearted water signs, and anyone with a corporeal form.
M. Klein is a poet and artist from an Appalachian basement. In daylight she is a rumor, at night a blue prophecy. Her poetry has been published by, or is forthcoming with: Eunoia Review, Broken Antler, Ghost City Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Pile Press. Klein is the author of two chapbooks, Brentwood and Garden of the Good flowers (Ghost City Press.) She is the creator of a poetry workshop by mail called “To Light A Candle” –now approaching its seventh session in April 2025.
losing our grip on purpose 