SELF PORTRAIT AS BROKEN RECORDS
After Ocean Vuong
What kind of woman is this if a woman
at all, is s/he feminine enough to be kissed
on the mouth by a long list of lovers,
favored, or desired as passionately as any
beauty, any folklore, any archetypal question
mark, or appetite; the kind that never leaves--
Never touched to lips that understood the
meaning of sacrament, of tongue, teeth, or
rigidity of body—rusted soft palate sings, much
like a brute lie or burnt bible, full with bitters,
a skeleton key, an army of banned books—ready
for translation, where is the first kill—first kiss
from an un-mother, first fuck from memory
calloused knuckles, uncles play pretend--
cousins play tornado alley and baby goddess worship,
1980s taught them—proved wombs can murder
future generations, sister a mourned wishing
well of fractured ovum, swollen tongues of sad
eyed pixie cuts—how appetites never grew but
bellies did, lies prettied by loneliness, mother
never stopped living inside her own shadow self--
photographs were soured with echo, coming from
inside, from the basement of that house,
from the base of such a massive Oak, so still--
several tarantulas gave birth to themselves from
rose bushes, from sweet throats, those sweet little
throats full of warm whiskey, sing praises,
taught the ugly, numbed sky—to love
gravity, to first kiss birds, feed them newly born--
until they flit from earth to fragmented sunset,
none of these photographs are true, except the
eyes, none of the smiles are real, and the house
stands idle even with all of this burning.
What kind of woman is this if a woman
at all, is s/he feminine enough to be kissed
on the mouth by a long list of lovers,
favored, or desired as passionately as any
beauty, any folklore, any archetypal question
mark, or appetite; the kind that never leaves--
Never touched to lips that understood the
meaning of sacrament, of tongue, teeth, or
rigidity of body—rusted soft palate sings, much
like a brute lie or burnt bible, full with bitters,
a skeleton key, an army of banned books—ready
for translation, where is the first kill—first kiss
from an un-mother, first fuck from memory
calloused knuckles, uncles play pretend--
cousins play tornado alley and baby goddess worship,
1980s taught them—proved wombs can murder
future generations, sister a mourned wishing
well of fractured ovum, swollen tongues of sad
eyed pixie cuts—how appetites never grew but
bellies did, lies prettied by loneliness, mother
never stopped living inside her own shadow self--
photographs were soured with echo, coming from
inside, from the basement of that house,
from the base of such a massive Oak, so still--
several tarantulas gave birth to themselves from
rose bushes, from sweet throats, those sweet little
throats full of warm whiskey, sing praises,
taught the ugly, numbed sky—to love
gravity, to first kiss birds, feed them newly born--
until they flit from earth to fragmented sunset,
none of these photographs are true, except the
eyes, none of the smiles are real, and the house
stands idle even with all of this burning.
I THINK MY MOTHER IS THE ZODIAC KILLER
ABOUT JENNIFER E. HUDGENS
Jennifer E. Hudgens, (she/her/they/them) is an Oklahoma poet, MFA candidate at Oklahoma State University, and should probably be working on her thesis right now. Recently published poems in Dream Pop, Drunk Monkeys, and a chapbook called BEAR. Jen is constantly trying to be a better human and poet whilst simultaneously keeping herself and fans entertained on Facebook by shitposting. Find her frequenting deli cheese sections.
