Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
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1.
First day of my blood time. Again.
Burnt orange and muddied brown.
I am trying to turn a nightmare into a poem.
It is not enough to fill me.
Words like windows. A hiccup of shadow,
Swords drawn. And still the new blood
Is bitter. And the heavy dull weight of it
Is the opposite of joy.

2.
There is red wax on the windowsill.
My name inscribed. My body's palimpsest
Is read and re-read. I am not full.
Sunflower and two orange lilies.
A spray of baby's breath. Rose leaves,
Thorns intact. An asymptotic curve.
Small bones unformed. The wet
Black promises somehow kept alive.

3.
The smell of cumin and clean
Yeast rising. Lentils stewing
In a cast iron pot.

4.
My body. Walled interiority.
A fortress of no choice, of death
Walking softly. Whispering into
A shout. No words to describe it.
This doubled event horizon,
This plane of silvered loss. I am
Outside the garden now.


Katrina Mariah Jensen received an MA and an MFA in Poetics at New College of California, has edited and published two zines, clot and yummi hussi, and has taught poetry in the states, ESL in Japan, and is currently teaching English and ESL in the Monterey Bay Area. Her work has appeared in Nimrod: International Journal of Prose and Poetry, Sierra Nevada Review, Fox Cry Review, and in Limestone: A Journal of Art and Literature. She and her partner Jeff are currently seeking parenthood through adoption. Visit her new blog, The Bone Coral Chronicles.


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