Poetry

by Jessica Hand

Womb in Three Parts

Ms. Potatohead
puts body parts where she wants,
still does not own twat.

Teen’s womb fills with rain—
parents become umbrellas.
Earth’s thirsty mouth drinks.

Clinics close so
hangers go in. Earth spins
against clocks. Women rip.

Artic

He dismisses meager snowflakes, places
joy in perfect cubes and infinite curves.

She fills silence with song, her flute
perpendicular to her face, gives metal voice.

The direct push of glaciers urges them together.
He calculates the distance; she shapes the space.

They trudge against sky: a human smudge
whose scarves and gloves dispute nature’s hold.

Everywhere snowdrifts dip precisely downward—
she sculpts frozen hearts; he measures out a kiss.

A polar bear vomits shapeless feathers. Like the soul,
she whispers. He counts them one by one.

They scrape out igloos, press skin to skin until warm,
until two parabola curve into one.