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Poetry

To become beautiful again

Earth things

Oh mother

Let me breathe in

Your believed

Sex

Your fertile

Microcosm of

Earth thigs, earth things

Sweet sensuality

I was born

Of your sap

And drank from

Your womb

And wounds

So I could become

As I am,

Earth Thing.

 

To become beautiful again

I’ll lay my head in the meadow

To feel the tall grasses

Sweet grasses

Painting softness on my skin

Brushing pollen on my temples

To make still

To be still

Dusty skin

Back in the womb again

An impression of myself

Against

Aster

New England and blue top

And glowing on the ground with their golden

Rod

Where the pollinators make

Continual beelines right back to me

Moj cerdtse

To kiss violet

To smell yarrows

Earth tale

Squirrel tail

I’ll lay my head in the meadow

To allow my thoughts to

Drip down, deep down

Into dandelion roots

Detox

Until my mind

Runs smooth with honeybee honey

For lions’ teeth to heal

Deep in capillaries

And neural things

Are combs and comb

For safe keeping

For caterpillars

And winged things

To become

Beautiful again.

 

Fall

I collected the dill seed

For rainy days and

For yesterdays

In my pocket

Where hummingbirds

Retrieve

Dreams

From yesterdays

And memories

Awake in the

Soul and

Soil

Of terre firme

Fourth generation

Mother oh mother

Plucking hens

From great oaks

With ancient roots

So we can out stretch our limbs to match

And to be little

So little

Iota man

Lost in a dill seed

Pocket

Where life erupts

from sleepy seeds

In spring

We release

The swallow’s tale

 

Summer quarantine

 

At the end of a gray day

When the weight of the

World felt

Heavy

With

Everything

All at once

I cooked all day to keep

My mind busy,

Rutabaga, Berry berry and mystery-no-meat beet burgers

And wished to see my family

And hug my mom again

We’d only bumped bows

Outside Michigan, near Ohio borders

My dear friends

Mushroom loving tender chicken

Winner

Dinner

Mother

Sends me photos

Of Lapi. Sulphuris

Young and tender

Weeping

Fruiting bathers and

Make meals to keep our minds busy

Or we put our hands in the dirt

To sniff the soil while the

Storm seems never ending

Even though the freeway pulses

With carbon dioxide

And urgent urgencies

While we dig up beet root

And get lost in the lotus

Leaves of cabbages

Green and unfolding

Protecting the prize

Of our collective sanity

 

We put our hands in that

good

black

dirt

To imagine the lives of others

Who need to feed

and who

Cook to keep busy.

Just like me

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by jbelair

Jennifer Belair Sakarian is a mixed media visual artist and writer. Her writings work in tandem to her visual art and act as cathartic experiences. Much of her poetry, prose and short stories create conversations around ideas behind femininity, the natural world, and mental health. Through her writings, she aims to expose the fluidity of stream of conscious thought patterns and the innate complexity of identity all the while having a good laugh...or not. She independently published her first book, "I'm okay, okay," featuring selections of poetry and trace monotype print illustrations.

Raised and educated in the Midwest, she received her Bachelor of Fine Arts in Printmaking and Art History from Siena Heights University in Adrian, Michigan and her Master of Fine Arts in Printmaking from Wayne State University in Detroit, Michigan where she is currently a teaching assistant in the Printmaking Department.


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