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  • Portrait of the Subject, at Rise, and: Portrait of a Seamstress, and: The Reaper, and: Girl over Grasslands, and: Hymn to Nephthys
  • Jenna Coughlin (bio)

Portrait of the Subject, at Rise

At the gallery opening, the line curls out the door. There is her frog-necked father; her mother, the gray reed. Her upstairs neighbor rattles his keys. No one else needs a face: Blurry bodies brushing suit-coated shoulders together, their conversations shoot up static that settles like a charcoal cloud in the trees. These are ceaselessly shuffling shoes. These are her final moments at rest. Inside she knows she is ceaselessly shuffled—Girl as Blessed Virgin, Girl in Flight, selves stuffed in jars, selves sprouted from the bath. She wonders if they've come to confirm their suspicions. Girl over Grasslands. Girl Reclining in Space. She [End Page 124] wonders if they've ever ridden silver carts into a mineshaft, admired the chalky figures on the wall of a cave. Portrait of Girl Sucking Yolk from an Egg. Portrait of Girl Underground. She once felt like a bulb in a garden of bulbs. Now she folds herself into a fan.

Portrait of a Seamstress

No sooner had she lifted the scissorsthan it occurred to her: The day was cloth.Here she sat unraveling evening,

fraying the edges of smog. She couldrip the seams and every lightwould snap. She could draw riverbanks

together. Once, she cobbled shoesout of pavement. Last Tuesday, she patterneda coat from hay. She gave it to her lover,

and he wore it to court. This is madness,she mutters, as she irons her hound. Somedayshe will stitch a highway out of town. [End Page 125]

The Reaper

I am sickle slicing the new-formed frost,harvesting patterns from brutal icebergs,gurgitating since January, impervious

to the sun. Frost fights backwith ornamental fists. It bloomsinto a bouquet of spears.

The building's caution against falling icefails to mention its powers of seduction,as when a sliver escapes the gutter

and incubates in the hollowbetween your breasts. I never shiver.I am armed with blue-toned steel.

I know the dangers of sympathy,the pity with which pale women puttheir cheeks to the drifts. So alone

in ditches, so alone in the empty fields. [End Page 126]

Girl over Grasslands

I walk with an army blanket overmy head, and the staff in my handstalks together. If I lean

into wheat, I can navigate soil,rested three years and readyfor the plow. I am dragging a path

you will lose for a quarter century.Wherever I sow, chaff follows.If you find these depressions in earth

and these worn-out soles (printsof soles), say, "Here she walkedamong milkweed. And here,

where the path ends, she unfurledher standard and was gatheredinto the arms." I know I will miss

the ruts in my back, kneadedwith agrarian attention.But something green could still come

from me. Something could yetuncurl from the Till Plain,where all eyes watch for flax. [End Page 127]

Hymn to Nephthys

Bury the hieroglyphs if you know what's good for you. It's bestnot to carry the sign for maraud. Even the pirates lying among    reedsquit asking questions about the swallow goddess. She refuses

to carry a sarcophagus. The Egyptians never ask her to raisethe pylon above her head. It has been said her tears drip upwardand buzz. It has been said she hiccups frogs. It has been said,

"The bearer of boat reeds would do well to dip his hands first in    mud."

Many things have been said of boat reeds. Much has been askedof the goddess of swallows. She listens at the raining hours

when wind dies. She listens as the stylus breaks from overuse. [End Page 128]

Jenna Coughlin

Jenna M. Coughlin resides in Chicago, where she teaches second grade in the Englewood neighborhood. This is her first publication.

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