Jen Stewart Fueston
The Mother
The mother is a housecoat. You put her on, walk in. You wear her, but she is not you.
The mother of God said yes once and her body parted like a dressing gown to let him
in. Now we hail her like a taxi cab to carry us away. The mother is a boat made of
skin. Gilt as an icon. Every mother’s face smooth as glass holds a votive you light to
pray, seamless and eternal. Always a receptacle, the mother is empty. A snake skin,
a paper gown on an exam table, legs in the air. A child inside you is inside the mother
you’re inside. Mother is a dress you cannot try on before you buy her, pulling her
over your head like a blue sheet. As a field of white snow is sometimes blue, nothing
to behold but its translucence. The mother is a pocket. The mother is a well full of
blood, a ladle dipped into her belly. She’s a cup, and a bowl you bring to your lips
when you’re hungry. Her body a feast you carry. She gives it and you break her open.
Jen Stewart Fueston is the author of Madonna, Complex (Cascade Books 2020), Latch (River Glass Books 2019) and Visitations (Finishing Line Press 2015). Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in AGNI, Western Humanities Review, Structo, Spoon River Poetry Review and elsewhere. A native of Colorado, she has taught writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder, as well as internationally in Hungary, Turkey and Lithuania. www.jenstewartfueston.com
Return to January 2021 Edition
The mother is a housecoat. You put her on, walk in. You wear her, but she is not you.
The mother of God said yes once and her body parted like a dressing gown to let him
in. Now we hail her like a taxi cab to carry us away. The mother is a boat made of
skin. Gilt as an icon. Every mother’s face smooth as glass holds a votive you light to
pray, seamless and eternal. Always a receptacle, the mother is empty. A snake skin,
a paper gown on an exam table, legs in the air. A child inside you is inside the mother
you’re inside. Mother is a dress you cannot try on before you buy her, pulling her
over your head like a blue sheet. As a field of white snow is sometimes blue, nothing
to behold but its translucence. The mother is a pocket. The mother is a well full of
blood, a ladle dipped into her belly. She’s a cup, and a bowl you bring to your lips
when you’re hungry. Her body a feast you carry. She gives it and you break her open.
Jen Stewart Fueston is the author of Madonna, Complex (Cascade Books 2020), Latch (River Glass Books 2019) and Visitations (Finishing Line Press 2015). Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in AGNI, Western Humanities Review, Structo, Spoon River Poetry Review and elsewhere. A native of Colorado, she has taught writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder, as well as internationally in Hungary, Turkey and Lithuania. www.jenstewartfueston.com
Return to January 2021 Edition