Jennifer MacBain-Stephens

Updated: Feb 9

The Female Citizens from Sunshine Nation Face off with Light Sucking Demons

Preface

Mutual obliteration is a goal for some. A rolling around or groping in a hovel. How we pretend

to be devastated. Would I be a perfect disease of cute but uncommunicative? A cluster shining

on— equaling your too high octave listening to wind scream razor necks. Zoom down mountain

blast on your own time. Speed through nature’s hoax. These are not poems. Don’t call it poetry.

What do we have if not our alienate. If not our bed. Our pretend tapping grind. Biceps. Tongue.

Jeans. A scary planter growing majestic is right twice a night. The hole in the door covered with

duct tape. The hole the mother looks through. Adam’s peach Victorian looms in the distance.

Get a girl to come sit on your bed Adam. Roll up your sleeves. Feel the ink.


 

Jennifer MacBain-Stephens lives in Midwest and is the author of four full length poetry collections: Your Best Asset is a White Lace Dress (Yellow Chair Press, 2016) The Messenger is Already Dead (Stalking Horse Press, 2017,) We’re Going to Need a Higher Fence, tied for first place in the 2017 Lit Fest Book Competition, and The Vitamix and the Murder of Crows is forthcoming in 2018. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. She is also the author of ten chapbooks. Recent work can be seen at or is forthcoming from The Pinch, Prelude, Cleaver, Yalobusha Review, decomp, and Inter/rupture. Visit: http://jennifermacbainstephens.wordpress.com/

Recent Posts

See All

Vots de casament I hear a woman yell but she’s a bitch! She’s a bitch. I sit on the red sofas of the Monarch bar, again, a beer. La más barata, por favor. Brindo por mis tías. Many alcohólicos en mi f

THE ROAD HOME The road home is full of dusts, on your way back you would learn to take Those classes you fled from, lessons of patience, how to marry the chaos softly, How little could mean bounty som

how to banish a ghost ritual is just another name for the habits grief carves from a mourner’s tongue. you empty your mouth until you’re a rabid song knee-sunk in your mother’s garden. prayers a rift