The Babies Born

The Babies Born

Where was the man?
No ants in his pants.
No motion in his flawless body.
He was checking on the babies born.

She saw them in her mind.
All their lives and deaths.
Fetuses in a galaxy.
Ghosts running to the door first.

They are perfect and pondering
the meaning of birth.
Shall they crown?
Shall they scream?
Should they hope to never
see that vagina again?

And then they are dead and dancing.
He is now the pallbearer at the funeral.
He dances with the casket
in his hands.
How he dances.


Soil Inside

Pull the flowers from my mouth.
I am full of dirt.
They are tulips.
I grew them from the pot
of my stomach
for you. 

My jaw was unhinged,
my head rooted back,
soaking in rain and
I looked like I was screaming.
I wasn’t making noise, though.
The mailman stood before me
and said,
“You don’t have to be out here. ” 

I walked away from him,
to a place where I could
be wet in peace.

You ask me if I’m in pain,
like you want me to nod.
The answer is yes.
It hurt growing something
from the soil inside,
but I would do anything
to be the one
you yank from. 

I heard you once plucked daisies
from the tongue of a girl
and offered them to a woman
who preferred roses.
She threw them in the trash,
with everything else you
ever gave her.
Her mouth was always closed. 

The absence on your face tells me
there are no tulips to grab.
I think I grew weeds.


She Came to Earth

Over that moon
was a moon, was a moon,
was a man.
They created the moon
as a joke.
She was every crater on
that white speck.
She came to earth
as a human
and everybody brought
their feet to her chest.
There was no light at night
without her up in the sky.

She was disturbed when she
fit into her mom’s pants.

Her body was a body
and she diagnosed it
with ailments that never
knew it.
She unlocked her arms.

Love is her garbage can.
She fills it
instead of it
filling her.

And it is a cyclone amore.
The best comes when they are
without their sanctuary.

Bodies don’t know bodies
until they aren’t afraid to burn.

Colleen June Glatzel is based in Waukesha, WI. She’s the author of Hey, Joey Journal. Her poetry has been published in Blue Heron Review, Pochino Press, 5th Wall Press, WORDPEACE, Tipton Poetry Journal, Bramble and Synaeresis, among other publications. When Colleen’s not writing, she is painting, studying numerology, doing impressions, or dealing antiques. 

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