Thrush Poetry Journal
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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




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