Jeanne-Marie Osterman
In My Kitchen, Spring Morning 2020, Smelling Coffee
I like how we call a snake what it is—
coachwhip, rattler, chicken snake.
Caught one yesterday on my morning rounds—
wrapped around a chick’s nest,
chick half down its mouth.
Thinking about land mine museum I visited
in Laos, laughter from hangar out back,
bussed-in farmers and kids, legs
blown by bomblets, learning
wheelchair basketball.
I tune in Morning Joe—
Dow now 23,433.
Death count also rising.
Prisoners charged with digging mass graves.
Sirens drown out further reports.
Pouring first cup, I remember last night’s dream:
a shore painted by Mardsen Hartley—
crests of waves, white stumps—
dead sailors hitting the rocks.
In the yard, first crocuses unfurl,
their gold almost an argument.
Bees circle, fill invisible sacs,
get what they can into a six-week life.
—Submitted on 09/23/2020
Jeanne-Marie Osterman is the author of There’s a Hum (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and Shellback (Paloma Press, 2021). Her poems have appeared in Borderlands, Cathexis Northwest, California Quarterly, The Madison Review, Bluestem, and other journals, as well as in the anthologies Our Poetica: A Testament to the Shared Uniqueness of the Poetic Experience (Cathexis Northwest Press, 2019), and Of Burgers and Barrooms: Stories and Poems (Main Street Rag, 2017). Osterman lives in New York City, and serves as poetry editor for Cagibi.
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