ABOUT

CONTENTS

EDITORIAL

ARCHIVE

LAGNIAPPE

MAST

SUBMISSIONS

Two Poems
by Jill Beauchesne


[making the Jennifers strange]

1.

The Jennifers break candy into matching lengths.
On their bikes, ruthless.

The sidewalk full of masterminds—the boys
who want to eat our heads—

Jennifers can stand on their handlebars. Jennifers can stand the others—

2.

The Jennifers fight. My bruise and freckle
lines up to their bruise and freckle.

They invite me to the front row—leggy display.
Wait—your mother told you
No matter. We are on patrol.

3.

Changing clothes in a basement shop.
The Jennifers tell me
not to come out.

That elastic waistband will mark you.
That body becomes pale, folds.

4.

The Jennifers open their dresser drawers
and press me to the spoils.
Down the tunnel,
I smell one thousand Jennifers,
glycerin soap, menstrual pads.

My sister does not cry when I hold her down—
the Jennifers. She waits her turn.



Maggie’s Farm

Today I pull each cable from its hosing. Nut from socket, washer un-lining, thrust and sort, rinse.

I am freezing. Yesterday you killed a beast. It began here, in parts. My knuckle on the washboard,
coil and snapping gaslight. The boot—the scope—the snap. What desire obliges me.

Tomorrow’s assignment—women’s work. I will cut the torso with a knife, bind the ankles
with string. In the sun, pounding tendon into pemmican, admiring my own arms. A smell like
juniper.

In some way the personal is aroused.

I tell you what. I’m playing but not all the way.

I am compelled to dance with this lifeless abdomen. On my head, a nest. Three baby saw-whet owls,
pooling eyes, noiseless and wide. A backdrop of ice and wildflower.