Jennifer MacBain-Stephens: Redacted in Hour Glass
Klimt
/shape/
My xx hates the word trickle.
Globular is not about globes.
My xx virally multiplies under glass,
inherits claustrophobia,
shrinks down to squirrel suicide size.
My xx tricked into digging
apocalyptic pencil skirt truck drag.
My xx, her own finger bang,
critic of banned fingers
never saw her fingers coming.
My xx drifts into non-napping,
non alpha-state brainiac
“T” and “A” image waves.
In nightmares, mass is fluid.
lives in the unnamed
and disappeared.
My xx mines a deciduous
atmosphere, mocks and
desires the lithe fawn’s presence,
grows with every missed mile,
misses the reaping, the stroking.
My xx forgot you were coming over
shrunk on too high heat.
/look/
Swing from
the tree of knowledge and
Joann’s Fabrics.
Redacted in hour glass or wool mini,
gleefully commits test tube
baby crimes. Hip width spanned
too soon , eradicates
freckle peep show lingerie,
chapped lip mouth.
How many pop-up windows
can fit into my xx’s mouth,
my wingspan?
Decaf , lollipop , straw, banana.
The pulling motion into lips
removed too many ribs
before cocktail hour.
The dirty string theory
The look of my xx is mussed –
tendon and tendril mixed up
lost on a spinal cord highway.
At what cost, my xx
feeds on frozen faces like a succubus.
The sun kissed wanes
effort
was never kissed.
The straps tied here
Scratched necks apart there.
Lifted by pixelated dots
into the clouds
You thought it would sink right to the bottom
like the bottom feeder it is.
You thought it would sink right to the bottom
like the bottom feeder it is.
/action/
The real animal who murders
the most people in Africa
each year is not the tiger.
It is the hippo.
The humans never see it coming.
Stand still on the platform –
subway or runway,
But dance if you want
men to leave you alone.
It’s all the same neon
trick propagated by
adrenaline junkies
juiced off their rockers.
If you juice me I
regurgitate.
The mango sugar froths over my lips,
I linger on the word
Bi-cus-pid,
because I know you want me too.
Editor's Note: These poems appeared on our old site.
Jennifer MacBain-Stephens went to NYU but currently lives in Virginia. She is the author of three chapbooks: Every Her Dies (ELJ Publications,) Clotheshorse (Finishing Line Press, 2014,) and Backyard Poems (Dancing Girl Press, forthcoming 2015.) Recent work can be seen / is forthcoming at Toad Suck Review, Red Savina Literary Review, The Poetry Storehouse, Bareknuckle Poet: Journal of Letters, Quail Bell Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Flapperhouse, Infoxicated Corner, and Hobart. For a complete list of publications and other odds and ends visit her website.
