The thing is, you grew up
anyway. Whatever lost you can’t
remember having had. Also,
you can’t sleep.
Also, you might never sleep
again. You’re still afraid
of ---. There is a blanket.
There is a bear. You are
quite seven. A shadow behind
wide-eyed reflection. Not ready
to look. Not ready to
ever. Behind your
eyes drape a sheet
over the mirror. Quick. Careful.
An older hand will remove
it. Or
Jennifer Stella is a writer and a doctor. During medical school in San Francisco, she pursued an MFA in poetry at Brooklyn College. Also a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer from Cameroon, her poetry and prose have appeared in
Eleven Eleven,
The Drunken Boat,
The Brooklyn Review,
The Intima, and others. Her first chapbook,
Your Lapidarium Feels Wrought, was published in March 2016 (Ugly Duckling Presse). She is currently working as a primary care physician and HIV specialist at Rikers Island jail in New York City.
the Tuesday poem is curated by
rob mclennan
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