"Better Awaits" by Jenn Ashton
Two poems by Sreshtha Sen
In English Now
“In English there is always a word.”
-C.D. Wright
What comes before a name? This body
learned to beg before we even called
our need. Before hunger there was only
emptiness burnt so white we gathered to feed.
What word would begin to describe your mother’s face?
When the store attendant muttered I swear
It’s like I’m talking to a wall. Can you even
understand a fucking thing I’m saying? (what’s the word for yes we can actually
& you’re an asshole)
What’s the word for how
she looked right then, just like now,
as she moves to leave & tumbles over my front steps:
so lost, so hurt & what’s the word for me:
clutching her cut knee, as I mother my own
mother whispering Hey. It’s okay. Get up
now. Everything’s going to be alright. I got you.
“In English there is always a word.”
-C.D. Wright
What comes before a name? This body
learned to beg before we even called
our need. Before hunger there was only
emptiness burnt so white we gathered to feed.
What word would begin to describe your mother’s face?
When the store attendant muttered I swear
It’s like I’m talking to a wall. Can you even
understand a fucking thing I’m saying? (what’s the word for yes we can actually
& you’re an asshole)
What’s the word for how
she looked right then, just like now,
as she moves to leave & tumbles over my front steps:
so lost, so hurt & what’s the word for me:
clutching her cut knee, as I mother my own
mother whispering Hey. It’s okay. Get up
now. Everything’s going to be alright. I got you.
This Is Not a Poem about My Mother
In another life, nothing changes except me:
my hair a spillage against the blue of the night.
I notice men who notice me. I am a wound
walking into every empty room I can find.
I learn to hold his mouth against me—how
we spell our need under skin dark & unsure.
There is a wedding: I wear what I am told
& smile in all the pictures. My body is swollen
with possibilities and I still remember to call
home once every night and twice on weekends.
Phone receiver between my shoulder & my soul
I pretend everything is okay and laugh if needed.
I forget to be happy. I don’t know whose dream
this is but I wake: a woman only wanting to be held.
In another life, nothing changes except me:
my hair a spillage against the blue of the night.
I notice men who notice me. I am a wound
walking into every empty room I can find.
I learn to hold his mouth against me—how
we spell our need under skin dark & unsure.
There is a wedding: I wear what I am told
& smile in all the pictures. My body is swollen
with possibilities and I still remember to call
home once every night and twice on weekends.
Phone receiver between my shoulder & my soul
I pretend everything is okay and laugh if needed.
I forget to be happy. I don’t know whose dream
this is but I wake: a woman only wanting to be held.
Sreshtha Sen is a poet from Delhi, India and one of the founding editors of The Shoreline Review, an online journal for and by south asian poets. She studied Literatures in English from Delhi University and completed her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College. Her work can be found published or forthcoming in Bitch Media, BOAAT, Breakwater Review, Hyperallergic, Hyphen, The Margins, Meridian, Split Lip Magazine and elsewhere. She was the 2017-18 Readings/Workshops Fellow at Poets & Writers and currently lives and teaches in Las Vegas where she’s the 2018 BMI PhD Fellow in Poetry.
North Vancouver, B.C. Artist, and Author Jenn Ashton has lived a creative life that has encompassed everything from farming to the Boardroom; from BC to Harvard and back again. Coming from an artistic family she has brought a creative flair to all her projects large and small. Jenn is known for her originality, resourcefulness, and vision. JennAshtonArt.com
