Poetry By Jen Stein

        Paul Padshewscky CC



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Maybe there are things more tangible than water 

Moonlight ripples on the water, the sky’s echo 
framed on the lake. The picture oscillates,
tangible ripples with their variable harmonics.

I could grab that sky, shove it in my mouth, moon
on my tongue tip, stars slipping down, splashing
over my neck, my arms, immerse myself full until I

breathe clouds to blot the sky, all goosebumps.
I want all the water. What if desire isn’t hunger
but an echo? What if wanting brings the ending? 

The harmonics aren’t set here, the tone ebbs
and swells. Maybe tomorrow the sky is clear, 
its bright arc caught in anything that holds

reflection – mirror, lake, eyes. Maybe tomorrow,
the sky cracks open. Either way, I want every word
tangled, taut, twisted – not the sky but our skin,

not the ethereal inconstant fucking moonlight but 
the smell of your neck. I want to know you picture 
me straddling you, tasting your tongue.  If desire

echoes, let the sound chase your hand to my thigh, 
my mouth to your stomach. We are mostly water,
painted by the moon. Wanting to swallow everything.

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Jen Stein is a writer, artist, editor, and educator in Fairfax, Virginia.  Her art and writing are informed by her experiences with advocacy and activism surrounding the politics of the body, disability, and mental health.  She has published and upcoming work with Porkbelly Press, Whale Road Review, Menacing Hedge, Nonbinary Review, and Stirring, and has been assistant editor at Rogue Agent for seven years. You can find her on Instagram @jensteinpoetry, and on Twitter @dexlira.