Jackie Anne Morrill is a MFA graduate student of Sarah Lawrence College. She devotes her time thesis writing inspired by tales of sexual fetishism, pseudo-psychology and the feeding habits of forest animals. Hailing from Worcester, Massachusetts, Jackie has become a strong and welcomed voice in the Worcester poetry scene over the past few years. Her work can be seen in New Graffiti: Literature on the Streets , The Ballard Street Poetry Journal , and Amethyst Arsenic .

Four Poems (January 20, 2012. Issue 34.)

The morning I clung to the stairs, while mom stuck her finger down your throat

When my younger sister
came back from the hospital,
(war, she will later say)
she had on her wrist a little white thread
and hanging from the thread
a black hole.

A sliver of bone
was removed,
(plucked)
by the boyfriend
and replaced with 27 dusty red aspirin.
Her stomach full of sleeping cardinal wings
(It was Halloween).

The time before this one, when you said you'd stop drinking

Before your sad mouth
it was windy after 8 p.m.
And on Friday
(your day off).
We leaned
forward: close to the floor.
In bed,
the spaces above our chests
were soft, they
were empty and
waiting
to be filled
with sand (and heavy)
and patient as teeth
before ice water,
forming rings:
wailing reminders on the side table.
Next to your gum.
Behind the frame.
Feeding off the faces,
warred on,
by a flask
not yet
dry.

Habituary

The smoke from your mouth
is a crow's nest
or a hollowed egg shell
swaddling a message signed,
Sincerely,

Our sex, like a Dali painting

1.

A low growl
tightening.

2.

Pitch:
the kettle's sharp exhale
a glass harp nervously teased

3.

Trying not to shift.
To keep open.
To spasm like sugar
in water so hot
it splits before the scream
is even thought of.

4.

Before shivering
into diamond
when released.