« Marcus Slease | Contents | Meghan McCarthy »

Genevieve Jencson

I Feel Beautiful



like a street lit doe.

Later you will see my soulless body.

I thought of you while I washed my hair.

Are you sad?

Each move is calculated

to make you lonely enough to buy me.


My name is fake.

Fathers don’t name their daughters that.

I have a father.

My route is carefully planned

so he won’t know where I’m going.

I am so afraid

it would break him.




While Rosewater Simmers 



I romance myself. Press my palms

to the lithic landscape ripe

with lichen and sea pink. Lace

my fingers between my ribs and breathe

to take more space. There is a skeleton

under my skin. Sometimes I forget

until it sings. The humerus sighs

in the scapular cavity. The femur

moans in the acetabulum. We grow

old together. We love each other

in our rosy bed, sheets speckled

with garden dirt and rhubarb crumbs.




At the Market 



I am not safe.


With the butcher and the baker

I cannot blend.


They will devour me.


One hot loaf, egg washed and blistered.

A featherless bird, blue flesh exposed.


I don’t know why I smile.







It has to hurt this much.

Damaged tissue stitches


together its delicate self.

I lick these lips,


thirsty for lipids.

This brain is starved.


Spring uncurls

like a worm.


This body is afraid.

This body is hungry


for butter and meat.







It is okay to be afraid

of a bear riding a bicycle.


A real bear will get hungry

even without his teeth.


The fish-boy in his cold tank

will envy your skin.


The snake-woman will want

to touch you. Tell her


you are afraid. It is okay to lie

if you are not.


They will be gentle

if they think you are afraid.

« Marcus Slease | Contents | Meghan McCarthy »