Contronym
Birth, a fireworks
of oxytocin, that chemical
jump starter—your love
engine revved
beyond starshine speed
to revelation: my baby. Mine.
The latch, the deep
draw, the undertow
of exhaustion from pushing out. Her
tiny eyelids, closed.
Her wafting scent, sweet
rice. The preventative
cabbage, tucked, in your bra.
The first time you had
breasts opulent enough
for cleavage. Cleave—
to split, to adhere. A relic
of baby name research:
to define as if predicting
the future. Your mind resists
a reality of no milk,
imagines My baby! My baby!
crying. Bodies working to
letdown, but empty. Surrounded
by rubble, thousands
displaced, murderous
intent. Targets: My baby, our baby,
all the children and families
by choice and birth. Beloveds,
I want to pretend love is enough.
No, I want love to be enough
in this world, evil-wracked. We know:
power, money, history, hate.
What to do but
cleave
into constellations of palms and psalms,
witness
it disperse, pray it further
multiplies, this mundane—Oh!
contusion, explosion, squander—
again: this mundane miracle,
this love in action. Then
repeat, repeat.
of oxytocin, that chemical
jump starter—your love
engine revved
beyond starshine speed
to revelation: my baby. Mine.
The latch, the deep
draw, the undertow
of exhaustion from pushing out. Her
tiny eyelids, closed.
Her wafting scent, sweet
rice. The preventative
cabbage, tucked, in your bra.
The first time you had
breasts opulent enough
for cleavage. Cleave—
to split, to adhere. A relic
of baby name research:
to define as if predicting
the future. Your mind resists
a reality of no milk,
imagines My baby! My baby!
crying. Bodies working to
letdown, but empty. Surrounded
by rubble, thousands
displaced, murderous
intent. Targets: My baby, our baby,
all the children and families
by choice and birth. Beloveds,
I want to pretend love is enough.
No, I want love to be enough
in this world, evil-wracked. We know:
power, money, history, hate.
What to do but
cleave
into constellations of palms and psalms,
witness
it disperse, pray it further
multiplies, this mundane—Oh!
contusion, explosion, squander—
again: this mundane miracle,
this love in action. Then
repeat, repeat.
Spring 2026
Heather Jessen has poems appearing or forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, Southern Humanities Review, Jabberwock Review, and elsewhere and is a finalist for the Mississippi Review and Charles Simic poetry prizes. A former resident of Australia, she lives in Connecticut where she's a reader for The Adroit Journal and can be sporadically found on Instagram at @maxhj1.
Art: Pamela Hobart Carter
While We Listen, 2025
An any-side-up, ink, pastel, and acrylic on (cheap) paper
While We Listen, 2025
An any-side-up, ink, pastel, and acrylic on (cheap) paper