Poetry by Christina Linsin

       Dane CC




What May Be

She asked me last night, through husks of tears and under protection of darkness, would she always be a loser? Hidden wounds gaped red like wailing mouths to drown the pain with a chorus of blood. I hadn’t known before that moment there was anything that could hurt more than being thirteen myself. My first instinct of denial and then flight, Of course you’re not a loser! withered and stuck at the back of my throat. I remember what this felt like. Always feels so heavy sometimes. So, instead, I lay beside her in the dark and told her about the first time I held her, two and a half weeks late and covered with caul and vernix. I shared stories from her childhood. I sang to her, and she did not protest as I wrapped her in notes and words and everything I had been guarding just for her. I stayed beside her, talking and singing, until she fell asleep with the amniotic rhythm. And then I prayed. I know I did not solve the problem, but I bought another day. I did not know what else to do. That night, I dreamed of Ophelia. “Lord, we know what we are, but know not/ what we may be.” What kept her from waiting for her answer? There was no additional day bought on her behalf when she made the choice to walk into the water’s open arms.


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Christina Linsin is a poet and teacher in Virginia. Her work examines connections with nature, complexities of mental illness, and difficulties creating meaningful connections with others amid life’s obstacles. Her poems have been published in The Milk House, Stone Circle Review, tiny wren lit, Still: The Journal, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and she has poetry forthcoming in Whale Road Review.