I never asked Mama to hand me the moon
or swallow the moon, she was busy
swallowing gallons of salt,
gallons of seawater she felt responsible
to carry, to carry the heaviness of it,
bent backwards to measure,
Mama just wanted to be a woman, not
so much grit and leave me to the moon, her
children learned abandonment, she forgot
joy, forgot dreams of flying, fly me
to the moon.
We always return to the moon,
she weighs heavy, gravity pulled at
her knees, ankles swell with a sad
stream of violence that terrorized
her every night as a child, I never
asked Mama to grapple with
stars in her pocket, or forgive gods
non-existent in the sky, the sky
ruled her cursed, thrill of flying forgot
they became strangers with no sense of
Mama swallowed matchsticks so her
children would recognize their own
fire, taste flame and sacrifice.
She knows she bore me wild,
she bore me broken hearted,
kissed my forehead with so much
drowning became genetic,
swallowing the sea became
what saved me, salt still heavy
in bone, admiring our bellies,
full with the moon.
Jennifer E. Hudgens enjoys dressing like a pirate, pretending to be a dinosaur and laughing until it hurts. She falls in love with the oddest of things. She hopes you like her poems and hates talking about herself in third person.: charliewortham.tumblr.com
Strange how elbows could turn someone on.
Yours like milk already folding over into wrinkles, beautiful,
how they support you and all those humble bones,
a museum skeleton stitched together into a person I could love,
spilt crumbs, impatient sighs, and all.
You fit inside me like a pulse that first night together,
so nervous the nape of your neck vibrated like a hummingbird,
jeans and blouse coming to rest on the floor
like meat freeing itself from the bone.
Now, I hold onto you like twine in a game of telephone,
waiting to feel the tug on the other end of the string
to signal you’re still with me, never left.
Freud spoke of the collective unconscious, the mind unaware of itself;
you hid there in mine years before we met
the same way small joints of the jawbone eventually migrated
into the ear region in ancient mammals.
To think, you and your elbows were always part of me
before evolution came along and fused us together.
I am a writer and photographer from the Midwest who mainly writes about survival, healing, and love. My work has been published in Words Dance Magazine, Winter Tangerine Review, Hooligan Magazine, and more. In March 2013, my writing portfolio won a National Silver Medal in the 2013 National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, and my poetry collection won a National Gold Medal. : writingsforwinter.tumblr.com