April 2021
Bio Note: I keep myself busy as a writer, grad student, Village Councilwoman, mother, wife
and novice roller skater. I have a blue belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu but I'm truly a pacifist at heart.
Nested in Albany, Ohio, I fancy myself an Appalachian-feminist poet. You might find my work in Northern
Appalachia Review, Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, Ghost City Review and elsewhere.
Puppets
Our children gather in the square
for the spectacle,
skins turned inside out and back again.
Councilmen slide their crocodile hands
into the furs,
forefingers move the tiny mouths
that hid cheekfuls of treasures hours before.
During squirrel season in the village,
we gather what we can—
creature, nut or fallen apples
haloed by hungry flies.
We hollow the insides,
pluck from shell,
peel skin from meat,
leave the bones behind.
After the show, jaws sore from laughter,
our children plot the hollowing of their Councilmen,
question if their tiny hands are large enough
to move the mouths.
Regret Is Not The Word
—For J. Robert Oppenheimer, one of the fathers of the atomic bomb.
200,000 dead, and he feels
his hands touch each body
at the blast. In sleep,
he dreams of Hiroshima, plucks
buds from Cherry Blossoms.
Rows and rows of pink clouds,
he works with duty to strip bare,
shoves each petal into his mouth
hopes to taste their blood.
He never finishes before sunrise.
©2021 Stephanie Kendrick
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