Who Sleeps in the Wet Spot

By Isla McKetta

My mother never told me          how the dripping rush
Would knot clot my pubic hair,
If I should lie pronely prim          missionary’s wife
Soak a tidy towel before shower sprinting,
Smear smudge myself dry           a teenaged tissue habit,
Or fetally curl right here           knees up          hoarding the treasure.

My mother never told me          someday I’d welcome
The after dollop          half the equation of life
The front line attack
Oozing its retreat          twelve hours post vital battle
And how I’d pray (pray pray) they left a man behind.
Isla McKetta is the author of Polska, 1994 (Éditions Checkpointed), co-author of Clear Out the Static in Your Attic: A Writer’s Guide to Turning Artifacts into Art (Write Bloody Publishing), and is currently working on a collection of poems about pregnancy. She earned an MFA in creative writing from Goddard College in Port Townsend, Washington and makes her home in Seattle with her artist husband, their son, and a dog.