Preschool

by Rachel Iverson

they sit round a knee-high table,
hair tangled and strawberry jelly
clinging to mouths, shirts, fingers

they talk of death
and Velcro shoes

and when i die my body will be in the mud and
i will have bones, but no skin.

of juice boxes
and assassinations

the white guys, they wanted everything to stay the
same and that guy who was the King wanted things to
change so everybody could ride on the bus, but then the
white guys shot him with a gun.

of infertility and
Halloween costumes

why doesn't Jack have a baby sister like mine?

of god and
the monkey bars

if my mom says I can't, then i heard
god can still say yes.




Rachel Iverson lives in Malibu with her husband, son and daughter. Her poems and prose have appeared in publications including Illume, a Journal of Universal Ideas; The MFC Forum Magazine; edifice WRECKED; Books and Babies; Onthebus; and The Philosophical Mother. She is the author of two chapbooks of poetry, Glimpse Over the Edge (2002) and Mother & Other (2003), and is a member of the Los Angeles Poets and Writers Collective. She also writes a column, Mother and Other, for Literary Mama. You can contact her or read some of her previously published work at www.racheliverson.com.