Solstice
beard crush
smash open teeth
I’d pay for your lip
service but
never knew it
felt like a car crash
to be sore in
new places
hip rug burns
sing sonnet-like
about his forearms
his third thumb removal
scar every new touch
starting over
you never barked stay
I flew crow-like
still chained to trees
your leaves burned red
and ignition blue
glass eyes
syllables and coffee grounds
scattered the sink’s edge
you never wanted to scan
my brain map
I let the wasps fly
into the house
looking to guide
a sweet sting
out of my cellar skin
Crocodile Eyes
half closed
one bird in the mouth
is worth two dead
floating in salt water
Let brown eyes beckon a chickadee
fly over fireplace stone
polished granite in a
warm bath turn gray eyes green
or sand color: an Amish made table
twice prayed over
some eyes dip: drugged and red
spread over a sick tiger’s eye in meditation
I never knew how blue
could bite and twist
slice my cheek
and throat in one blink
freeze my blush
before it spread
I would’ve stayed in
your ice forever
if you let me. your turquoise
ocean aloof set to swell at the wrong
moon times, my
passion cycle falling
off next month’s calendar
dread pumped sleeping hours
into my chest
too many times
my green eyes pried open
by tiny game pencils
tears falling
each dawn the
orbs raw
Like a cyclops I fumble
through my carpet cave
possess a periscope
tell myself it won’t hurt
to reach out, to blink
to touch the ice.
At Dawn, Harp Music is Not Your Voice
your voice is gravel
the way you touch me is sun
I cling to missing you
fine
I walk for days in the cold and weeds
clouds and winter fall around me
melt into mud
wind permeates space behind
my neck
under my ears
around my ankles
I lower my face
my eye lids burned
by wind
home: your eyes and lips light up
I gaze upon them
but it is your fingertips
that warm the valley
between my shoulders
my clavicle
my forearms
my hip bones
not shelter
not blankets
not lamps
I use your fingers to map my body
to feel where I’ve burned life
who I touch
J. MacBain-Stephens went to NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and now lives in Iowa. She is the author of four full length poetry collections and twelve chapbooks. Recent work can be seen at or is forthcoming from The Pinch, Prelude, Cleaver, Yalobusha Review, Zone 3, and Grist. Visit her website https://jennifermacbainstephens.wordpress.com/ and follow her on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jennycmacb/