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.