A Poem by Jen Benka

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

Bodies

Looking out the train window at trees and abandoned buildings wondering how many bodies. And by bodies I mean women buried there. I have always asked this question on trips through farm land and forest. What violence against women has happened in this place. Together cuts and becomes to get her. Why do these trees speak to me of dark horror. And I think of her leading me back into the bushes. Telling me to be. Very very quiet. Pulling my white cotton panties down to my knees. She said this is what they will do to you. Which meant this is what was done to her the only girl in a family of feral boys. Her father owned the donut shop. I think. They lived around the corner. If I tell the truth will these trees become sweet. Will I see through them to the clearing where the sunlight inspires wild flowers to return each spring. Blazing star baby’s breath forget-me-not hollyhock morning glory marigolds. Will I appreciate the green leaves against the blue sky instead of the dirt the layers of mud that roots wind through. The rot. All that is hidden underneath. Can I find her lift her. Breathe life into me. Arise I command you. Pull up your panties and get back to the park. Swing kick your feet into the air higher climbing higher.

Jen Benka is the author of A Box of Longing With Fifty Drawers (Soft Skull) and Pinko (Hanging Loose). She works as the executive director of the Academy of American Poets.

You will find more poems here. You may contact the editor at [email protected].