New Blood

It’s fall already and I feel petty—scared—trapped in a life squandered on too much television.


stacking firewood—

the watch’s hands

almost noon


It seems too late in the year for lady bugs to be hatching, I think, as their squirming, pulsating red blooms from the weeds, life billowing uncontrollably outwards. Tiny jewels beading the dry grasses, the mule’s ear and checker mallow, along the path beside the woods. And I haven’t had my period in months. One hand laying against my belly as I gather tinder. Then I feel it—too tight, low, heavy. Too something. I shift and my fingers come away wet from between my legs.



I imagine snow white



The emergency room. The white-noise hum of fluorescent lights. There’s a man pacing anxiously, an elderly couple seated in the corner, and a young mother with her daughter beside her—red lines running up her chubby, little girl leg. Stop scratching, says the mother. But the girl’s fingers are planted, roots against the crust, finding their balance. Here, take my hand, the mother finally says. The child holds tight. An oak tree growing from the decaying tree beneath.


the bobcat—a great hunter

or a dancer

when she grows up


I look at my own hands, already so old and wrinkled. Did they smoke? Or sit out in the sun? Did they laugh or frown too much? Or preserve themselves with drugs and alcohol into that Iggy Pop-Aerosmith-Rolling Stones look? Or did they just waste too much time in dish water? I spread my fingers and stretch my palm taut, turning my life line red like an artery.


pillow talk—

an apple pie cooling

on the still warm oven


Soon I’m swaddled in a pastel hospital gown made of the softest—strongest—cotton I’ve ever felt. Warm. Free. Drifting to sleep between the mechanical heartbeats… six months later. Again a hospital bed, my husband’s hand. I can do this, I think. She’s so tiny… and even though she’s squirming horribly at my touch, I know she needs me. And the truly great ones are never famous until after they’re dead anyway.


winter solstice—

a new mother

licking her kittens clean


Jennifer Met

Jennifer Met lives in a small town in North Idaho with her husband and children. Her poetry and hybrid nonfiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Gulf Stream, Zone 3, Kestrel, Harpur Palate, Nimrod, Apeiron Review, Moon City Review, Juked, Sleet Magazine, Weirderary, the Lake, Foliate Oak, Haibun Today, and elsewhere. Her first chapbook is forthcoming from Glass Poetry Press in 2017. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2015, a finalist for Nimrod’s Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and winner of the Jovanovich Award, she is Assistant Poetry Editor for the Indianola Review.