Jeannine Shackelton, USA Bio: Jeannine was born in the New Mexico desert and now makes her home back there after having worked in the Washington DC area as an Advertising Director of sixteen newspapers. Her poetry has appeared in numerous online and print venues. Her first book is expected to be published this year. She was recently awarded a "Pushcart" nomination.

cuts a stone marked my right temple sharp edges thirty years ago the first monday fallen down gravel path to school for all things entered something leaves blood from the cut trickled mound like a cornerstone while new yorkers strolled in the park i was laid out on the table staring at tiles overhead thinking another girls thoughts must still float up there the doctor broke silence i felt cold steel inside my womb another life was cut it was a small room 6th floor where nurses hold your hand the stain on the sheet didn't come off when mother soaked them in bleach the blood still clung like silt in a river soapy water lapped linen as if nothing had happened mother shook against the fabric laid it out flat cut ripped the sheet in a cross wind of words about ham One day I will go to chama i have given my time as a hand to a cradle stepping in to lift pillows in scrubbed down rooms white adobe walls molded at the foot of picacho peak by hard working men now i see tubes of oxygen slide snake like over my mother's mexican tiles fangs hanging from her nose her mouth void of any lover's kiss breathing brought air she remembers the warm hands of a young doctor upon her sore neck not my father's high laughter in the town plaza i smile a woman who unfolds cold sheets every night and crawls into bed once smoked and margaritas would ease her left hand to the ridge of a bath small bubbles in a ring at her breasts now as lizards climb patio chairs overlooking the organ mountains i bring cool water and pills to her bedside describe a hundred shades of orange sky turned against cottonwoods at dawn how quail run freely along the rock fence one day i will go to chama to see striped trout along the river my mother fished and i waded half naked throwing pebbles at empty cans i will stand in rolling country for a long time in blue shadows leaf-yards and water pushing my thoughts revolving my definition of mother setting my dining room table since last ETC treatment i quietly open my cookbooks back pages arranging silverware on the table as the drawing shows i must not forget the proper order i turn knife blades outward if the white cloth handed down from my mother looks spotted wrinkled with age i will wash & iron it out i will keep a bowl of fruit in the center if an apple tree sprouts from it i will believe in second chances if ants come i will share broken bread when saying the prayer i will try to remember... on the acelerator i didn't mind driving over trans mountain mother i knew the hospital route better than the curve of my breast every morning i remembered miles of tubes stuffed down your body i wanted to be there couldn't wait to slam my foot on the accelerator to drop ice cubes in your mouth comb your hair for years you'd wiped away flies noon heat crusted scales never questioning i was your plucked pearl your bird the one who screamed with colic could not be pleased as you pressed against me pink skin furious eyes bulging was it last month or last year i dreamt of your red suit matching high heels clicking down the sidewalk you smoked l & m's a tanned 35 lipstick and dollar bills swimming in your purse your life entered another room half glass walls looked through machines pumping driving by the plot at midnight on a trembling road 71 years rush over the mountain pass salad bar before the crowded salad bar the mounds are ready for deborah she remembers clutching the plate the press of low vinyl seats where her brothers friend squeezed his friend and their friend and a friend's friend into her mustang saturday night drive-in 1965 when everyone wanted piled high pussy later auto designers remembered contortions of such schemes now she pokes bean salad thinks it is only wednesday two days before they drive down to hilton head open up the beach house when the briggs arrive with scented oil towels made by designers she can't even pronounce some videos too with tropical island orgies hash to smoke day or night he puts olives on romaine thinks someone else can pick up the mail this coming week her husband didn't mention the bills left on their library desk those 900 number calls he made when he got steamed up before he climbed over her face he just said "i have something for you," never forgetting to remind  her of that three or four times a week always vowing to sure heat her up next time and would go out to the kitchen for a while then return smelling of cheese she notices a dribble of food on his white polo shirt as she returns to the table shakes her napkin over her crossed legs feels the press of her movado wrist watch and she is cool very cool. All works copyright Jeannine Shackelton

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