Poetry by Maria Giesbrecht

    Henry Söderlund CC




How to find yourself

                 After Isabelle Correa


Listen to the sound of a watermelon cracking

as it grows. Find a hole in your brain

the size of your heart. Take a walk. Test the theory

that it hurts to explore. Turn off your TV 

like it’s a faucet. The soul is full. Wear your first heart-

break like a g-string. Show it off. Never return 

a library book you masturbated

to. Pay the replacement fee. Thank the clerk

and get the hell out of there. Get the hell

out of there.





This morning, I wake up and play

with my feminine 

like a match. The resting bitch

face, the stench of morning

breath, somehow disappears 

once my underwear catches fire. 


We are all godly, 

I think, until our feet touch 

floors, our mouths creak 

open like tombs,

our faith, first strong like black,

waters down to grey 


by noon. There is no rest

for the human in us. So take 

a little time, make a little fire.





I don’t do Father’s Day

cards. I do Father’s Day

thoughts. It’s kind of like wishing
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someone a good

life and then not caring

if they’re fucked

in the head like a chicken

on a farm. But, he might only

be one feather

away from flying, I think,

one year away from dying, 

so I cough up compassion,

bow my head and wish

him well. And it’s not nothing.

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Maria Giesbrecht is a Canadian poet whose writings explore her Mexican and Mennonite roots. Her work has previously been published in Contemporary Verse 2, Talon Review, and is forthcoming in Queen's Quarterly. She is the runner-up for the 2022 Eden Mills Poetry Contest and a graduate of the post-graduate Creative Writing program at Humber College. Maria is the founder and host of the writing table, Gather, and spends her days nurturing creative folks to write urgently and unafraid. mariagiesbrecht.com
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