Your cry. New string. New bow. New hand. Keep playing your violin.
On June 9th, 2023, at 8:09 a.m. you birth your wordless word into day.
New branch cracking air from the / sterile / freeze. It’s so cold in the room I can almost see your
breath as a shadow of smoke on the scrim.
A Local Black Hole Serves Up an “Awe Moment.”
Amen, ever and forever glory the / and power the / and kingdom the is thine.
A voice is as singular as a fingerprint. Sound. Life. Wave. Lines. All originate from where point
touches plane.
The word ‘cesarian’ has its origin point told from the decree of Caesar: All women besot with
birth must be / cut / open from the womb.
His body from my body / cut /. His blood from my blood floods until / cut /.
I watch your birth behind a white sheet. The / cut / and pull of you from me is a shadow play
against the light. Motherhood from this myopic vantage could be seen as a permanent
installation.
A Landscape of Organized Chaos at MoMa.
/ Sterile / scrim gates me from un/sterile me. My un/sterile blood. My un/sterile viscera. My
un/sterile sick.
From us / deliver / but temptation into / not us / lead us.
Un / sterile / shock. Un / sterile / tears. Un / sterile / staggard. Un / sterile / labor. Un / sterile /
breath. Un / sterile / breath. Un / sterile / breath.
/ Sterile / pressure. / Sterile / pull. / Sterile / heavy. / Sterile / wrench.
HoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhand.
Even my husband’s hands must be gloved / sterile / in the / sterile / room.
The / sterile / bodies tell me to keep breathing. The rustle from their smocks. The muffled hollow
behind their masks. The sounds mock my shallow in and ex and in and exhale.
They told me it shouldn’t hurt. They were wrong.
Record Pollution and Heat Herald a Season of Climate Extreme.
/ Sterile / stirrups. / Sterile / ceiling. / Sterile / white. / Sterile / shadow. / Sterile / light. / Sterile /
haze. / Sterile / numb. / Sterile / hands / cut / a / sterile / opening. / Sterile / light opening / sterile
/ light.
I shelter what cannot be / sterile /.
Who those forgive / we as trespass our / us forgive / and bread daily our day.
I keep your name like a song at the tip of my tongue on the brink of my lips. I cannot keep my
tears from spilling like my blood past the points they keep in place.
They tap a point past my posterior plane until the point touches my spine.
You hum your melody inside me. You kick your beat into my drumhead until just before the
break.
This us / give heaven in / is it as earth.
/ Sterile / steps pass before bodies / sterile / in position. / Sterile / smocks. / Sterile / gloves. /
Sterile / masks. / Sterile / shields.
Done be / will thy / come kingdom.
/ Sterile / door. / Sterile / opening. / Sterile / walls. / Sterile / floor.
Thy name / be hallowed / heaven in art / who father our.
I make sure to read every word of the fine print; she taps her french tips on formica. Her
impatience for shift-change and sleep dopplers the pulse at my wrist as I sign the liability for my
eruption.
Orange Skies, Red Alerts, and the Future.
A nurse asks me if there is an issue with his positionality inside me to warrant the / cut / as she
walks me down a tight, cold corridor. As if he is somehow flipped on a reverse plane in my
womb.
I silently recite the only prayer I know by heart.
On June 9th, 2023, before the break of day, I pack my bag for a scheduled transformation.
Prayer / my hear God / please.
Lines in italics are news headlines from The New York Times (06/09/23).
Lines from The Lord’s Prayer are transcribed in reverse.
On June 9th, 2023, at 8:09 a.m. you birth your wordless word into day.
New branch cracking air from the / sterile / freeze. It’s so cold in the room I can almost see your
breath as a shadow of smoke on the scrim.
A Local Black Hole Serves Up an “Awe Moment.”
Amen, ever and forever glory the / and power the / and kingdom the is thine.
A voice is as singular as a fingerprint. Sound. Life. Wave. Lines. All originate from where point
touches plane.
The word ‘cesarian’ has its origin point told from the decree of Caesar: All women besot with
birth must be / cut / open from the womb.
His body from my body / cut /. His blood from my blood floods until / cut /.
I watch your birth behind a white sheet. The / cut / and pull of you from me is a shadow play
against the light. Motherhood from this myopic vantage could be seen as a permanent
installation.
A Landscape of Organized Chaos at MoMa.
/ Sterile / scrim gates me from un/sterile me. My un/sterile blood. My un/sterile viscera. My
un/sterile sick.
From us / deliver / but temptation into / not us / lead us.
Un / sterile / shock. Un / sterile / tears. Un / sterile / staggard. Un / sterile / labor. Un / sterile /
breath. Un / sterile / breath. Un / sterile / breath.
/ Sterile / pressure. / Sterile / pull. / Sterile / heavy. / Sterile / wrench.
HoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhandHoldmyhand.
Even my husband’s hands must be gloved / sterile / in the / sterile / room.
The / sterile / bodies tell me to keep breathing. The rustle from their smocks. The muffled hollow
behind their masks. The sounds mock my shallow in and ex and in and exhale.
They told me it shouldn’t hurt. They were wrong.
Record Pollution and Heat Herald a Season of Climate Extreme.
/ Sterile / stirrups. / Sterile / ceiling. / Sterile / white. / Sterile / shadow. / Sterile / light. / Sterile /
haze. / Sterile / numb. / Sterile / hands / cut / a / sterile / opening. / Sterile / light opening / sterile
/ light.
I shelter what cannot be / sterile /.
Who those forgive / we as trespass our / us forgive / and bread daily our day.
I keep your name like a song at the tip of my tongue on the brink of my lips. I cannot keep my
tears from spilling like my blood past the points they keep in place.
They tap a point past my posterior plane until the point touches my spine.
You hum your melody inside me. You kick your beat into my drumhead until just before the
break.
This us / give heaven in / is it as earth.
/ Sterile / steps pass before bodies / sterile / in position. / Sterile / smocks. / Sterile / gloves. /
Sterile / masks. / Sterile / shields.
Done be / will thy / come kingdom.
/ Sterile / door. / Sterile / opening. / Sterile / walls. / Sterile / floor.
Thy name / be hallowed / heaven in art / who father our.
I make sure to read every word of the fine print; she taps her french tips on formica. Her
impatience for shift-change and sleep dopplers the pulse at my wrist as I sign the liability for my
eruption.
Orange Skies, Red Alerts, and the Future.
A nurse asks me if there is an issue with his positionality inside me to warrant the / cut / as she
walks me down a tight, cold corridor. As if he is somehow flipped on a reverse plane in my
womb.
I silently recite the only prayer I know by heart.
On June 9th, 2023, before the break of day, I pack my bag for a scheduled transformation.
Prayer / my hear God / please.
Lines in italics are news headlines from The New York Times (06/09/23).
Lines from The Lord’s Prayer are transcribed in reverse.
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Jenny Maaketo (she/her) is a neurodivergent writer, psychiatric nurse, and former professional actress from Austin, Texas. She is currently an MFA poetry candidate at the University of Mississippi, as well as the senior poetry editor for Yalobusha Review. Jenny was a finalist for the 2024 New Letters Editor's Choice Award, a semifinalist for the 2024 Brett Elizabeth Jenkins Poetry Prize, and received a C.D. Wright Memorial Scholarship to attend the 2024 Poetry Program at the Community of Writers. Her poems appear or are forthcoming in Midway Journal, Acta Victoriana, Cherry Tree, The Florida Review, PRISM international, the Columbia Review, Atlanta Review, Crab Creek Review, Cordite Review, The Madison Review, and elsewhere. Jenny lives in rural Mississippi with her husband, toddler son, five dogs, two cats, and lots of love.
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