- Days, I make myself hungry, nights
- I am caught in hair, knotted locks,
- that charm is drawn from incantation,
- and most people that are killed are killed
- by people they know. I am caught in the ruined
- body of my mother, the bit that pulled her lips
- back into a grin, the invisible knee that urged her
- into mirrors, into the reflective faces
- of infants and men. I am caught in what she took
- for love. That incantation breaks words
- back into sound, sound into song, a shield
- that presses the bearer down.
- I am caught in the eye, a wounding wound
- that recites, the subtraction beauty radiates:
- a halo, the rotting root of a tooth,
- a black hole bending light.
Packingtown Review – Vol.7, Winter 2015/2016
Maggie Queeney's work has appeared in The Southern Poetry Review, The Southeast Review, and Handsome, among others. She lives with her cats Skeletor and Battlecat in a pink house in Chicago, where she serves as the Library Assistant at the Poetry Foundation.