Poetry — February 29, 2016 11:55 — 0 Comments

Barbarisms – Chelsea Dingman

No one wants to take the coffin-born
fetus from the barn. From between

the mare’s legs. They lay in tandem,
their deaths a pact between bodies. Here,

where all love ends in a gasp of cold
air. In a house that knows only

this cruel season. While I wait behind
wood stalls and glass windows to see

what becomes of a body. While I mouth
the wrong names for gods. For another stillborn

child, as my body stayed warm. As I was able
to push her towards dying. As I kissed her

slick forehead, blue eyelids. Perhaps, dream
and memory overlap like atmospheres.


Chelsea Dingman continues her MFA and teaches in the University of South Florida graduate program. Her work is forthcoming in Harpur Palate, So to Speak, The Adroit Journal, Grist: A Journal for Writers, The MacGuffin, Quiddity, and The Raleigh Review, among others. Her first book, Thaw, was a semifinalist for the Lexi Rudnitzky First Book Prize for Women and The Philip Levine Poetry Prize (2016).

Leave a Reply

What am I?

Bioluminescent eye
That sees by the shine
Of its own light. Lies

Blind me. I am the seventh human sense
And my stepchild,

Scientists can't find me.

Januswise I make us men;
Was my image then—

Remind me:

The awful fall up off all fours
From the forest
To the hours…

Tick, Tock: Divine me.

-- Richard Kenney