Hiraeth as Adoptee
Honeysuckle lingers on my tongue, too-ripe raspberries
stain my fingers while bees investigate my skin’s nectar.
The soles of my feet are black no matter how much I wash.
There’s a timber wolf at his heel outside my window watching.
He asks, who are your people? I don’t know the answer.
What are roots when the plant is pulled before it first feels sun?
I lie down and press my cheek to the rocks on the lakeshore.
The sun warms them even when the whitecaps pound. I hear
thrum and whisper. They pulse in my neck, nest behind my ear.
I tell my children the rocks are alive, they speak if you listen.
I have always listened. They want me to bring gifts, stain them
dandelion, blueberry, sweet cherry, press the goldenrod in.
Painted rocks, agate in my pocket. A hollow stone sown deep
in my mouth. I am not soil. A stone can’t grow, it can only sing.
Home is scattered beneath the surface of Lake Superior.
Polished blood from tender feet scrambling over the rocks,
blood from my mouth when I fell and my teeth scattered, too.
In the water, driftwood floats, a bloated white cold and slick
before the lake drags it down. A train’s pocked whistle and clack
wheels over railroad ties beating 4/4 time. Winds blow iron smelt
smoke over the water, it curls and clings, grey sky, black smoke,
whitecapped waves. I am a woman lying on her belly on the rock,
listening for a song to welcome me home. My bones know I’m alone.
stain my fingers while bees investigate my skin’s nectar.
The soles of my feet are black no matter how much I wash.
There’s a timber wolf at his heel outside my window watching.
He asks, who are your people? I don’t know the answer.
What are roots when the plant is pulled before it first feels sun?
I lie down and press my cheek to the rocks on the lakeshore.
The sun warms them even when the whitecaps pound. I hear
thrum and whisper. They pulse in my neck, nest behind my ear.
I tell my children the rocks are alive, they speak if you listen.
I have always listened. They want me to bring gifts, stain them
dandelion, blueberry, sweet cherry, press the goldenrod in.
Painted rocks, agate in my pocket. A hollow stone sown deep
in my mouth. I am not soil. A stone can’t grow, it can only sing.
Home is scattered beneath the surface of Lake Superior.
Polished blood from tender feet scrambling over the rocks,
blood from my mouth when I fell and my teeth scattered, too.
In the water, driftwood floats, a bloated white cold and slick
before the lake drags it down. A train’s pocked whistle and clack
wheels over railroad ties beating 4/4 time. Winds blow iron smelt
smoke over the water, it curls and clings, grey sky, black smoke,
whitecapped waves. I am a woman lying on her belly on the rock,
listening for a song to welcome me home. My bones know I’m alone.
March / April 2023
Jen Stein is a writer, artist, editor, and educator in Fairfax, Virginia. Her art and writing are informed by her experiences with advocacy and activism surrounding the politics of the body, disability, and mental health. She has published and upcoming work with Anti-Heroin Chic, Porkbelly Press, Whale Road Review, Menacing Hedge, Nonbinary Review, and Stirring, and has been assistant editor at Rogue Agent for seven years. You can find her on Instagram @jensteinpoetry, and on Twitter @dexlira.
Art: Aiyana Masla. Washington Sq. Park Sketch. Watercolor and ink