tWo Poems
Jeanne-Marie Osterman
Done When She’s Young
See the shrimp eye—
tiny black pinpoint
at the end of a stem
that grows
from the head,
like a flower.
In captivity,
the female
flower is cut—
her undulating
stalk snipped
with razor,
scissor,
or
fingernail,
the wound
cauterized
with hot wire.
No anesthesia,
done when she’s young.
After the ablation,
ovulation
increases ten-fold.
When I Was Nine, My Mother Kept a Gallon Jug of Port in the Broom Closet, and Wore Out the Grooves of Ray Charles’ Cryin’ Time
She was carrying a fourth child and when I heard
her tell her friend Jo on the phone she’d miscarried,
she made it sound like she won a prize. My sister D. drops
out of high school PG and I’m carrying
carnations in a Chapel of Love. My sister M. marries
a boy when he comes home from Nam not knowing he carries
Eight Miles High and a half-case of PBR.
Months later M. knocks on our door carrying
more than a suitcase and asks for her old room back.
I can drive by this time so when M’s time comes, I carry
her to maternity in my dad’s Vee Dub, tune
on tinny radio, Carry On. Love is coming to us all.
Jeanne-Marie Osterman is the author of four collections of poetry, including Shellback (Paloma Press), named by Kirkus a top 100 indie press book of 2021. She’s received three Pushcart nominations, and in 2018 was a finalist for the Joy Harjo Poetry Prize. Poetry editor for Cagibi, she lives in New York City. www.ostermanpoetry.com