by Maggie Queeney

  1. Days, I make myself hungry, nights
  2. I am caught in hair, knotted locks,
  1. that charm is drawn from incantation,
  2. and most people that are killed are killed
  1. by people they know. I am caught in the ruined
  2. body of my mother, the bit that pulled her lips
  1. back into a grin, the invisible knee that urged her
  2. into mirrors, into the reflective faces
  1. of infants and men. I am caught in what she took
  2. for love. That incantation breaks words
  1. back into sound, sound into song, a shield
  2. that presses the bearer down.
  1. I am caught in the eye, a wounding wound
  2. that recites, the subtraction beauty radiates:
  1. a halo, the rotting root of a tooth,
  2. 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.

  1. Maggie Queeney