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About this poet

Jennifer Militello was born in New York City and grew up in Rhode Island. She earned her BA at the University of New Hampshire, where she studied with Charles Simic, and her MFA at the University of North Carolina, Greensboro. She is the author of A Camouflage of Specimens (Tupelo Press, 2016), Body Thesaurus (Tupelo Press, 2013), and Flinch of Song (Tupelo Press, 2009), winner of the Tupelo Press First Book Award.

In her review of Body Thesaurus, Cate Marvin writes, “In the face of supreme, and therefore extreme, quietude (‘The mouth of me is bitten off’), Jennifer Militello’s poems hand us over to that other life we nightly receive in dream, a dimension at once seamless and yet so strange.”

Militello is the recipient of grants and fellowships from the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, Millay Colony for the Arts, New Hampshire State Council on the Arts, and Writers at Work, as well as the 49th Parallel Award from Bellingham Review and the Ruskin Art Club Poetry Award from Red Hen Press, among others.

She teaches in the MFA program at New England College and lives in Goffstown, New Hampshire.


Bibliography

A Camouflage of Specimens (Tupelo Press, 2016)
Body Thesaurus (Tupelo Press, 2013)
Flinch of Song (Tupelo Press, 2009)

Antisocial Media

It’s easier to computer than to crash. It’s easier
to computer than to hold a hand or knit
a winter together from headlights on the highway.

It’s easier to computer and be a hybrid and
cross from bowels and eardrums into hours
lit and roaring by like freight. The chapters

there can tell you an octopus has three hearts,
that snails breathe through their feet. It is easier
to have no arms or breath, to position through

colors and jumps shoreless as steam. No
surfaces. No verbs to be. No mussels
or bellows or congestion or caffeine.

No lens to focus, no Rome to burn. Who can
do when the roots are so untidy and
the branches rack like antlers against other

branches. It’s easier to computer than
to guess at a savior. Than to whisper slips
of information to the flesh. Let language construct

mere dewdrops of light. Let the circuitry
gauge the need and make it clean and make it
so heady it is erected, a remedy, in its ease.

There is no destination. No grave in place of a person
loved in the past, no identity classified, factual, no glass
to break open in the fisted hand, no cracked windshield,

no hurricane. Or there is, but it is closed inside its box
smaller than the box for roses, dead and moldered
by the time they reach the door, delivered only once.

Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Militello. “Antisocial Media” was originally published in American Poetry Review. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2015 by Jennifer Militello. “Antisocial Media” was originally published in American Poetry Review. Used with permission of the author.

Jennifer Militello

Jennifer Militello

Jennifer Militello is the author of A Camouflage of Specimens (Tupelo Press, 2016), Body Thesaurus (Tupelo Press, 2013), and Flinch of Song (Tupelo Press, 2009), winner of the Tupelo Press First Book Award.

by this poet

poem

Once you were a god I could feel
enter the house from my room.
Once I knew to shut the door
when you returned. Once my muscles
tensed in anticipation of the moment
you came and rained your anger
down; my sister and I cringed.
We’d hear the car pull in, snap
the television off

poem

Hatred is the new love. Rage is right. Touch
is touch. The collars of the coat, turned down,
point up. The corners of our hearts are smoothed
with rough. Our glass breaks slick, our teeth
rip soft. The mollusk of me, shell-less.
If the future once was, the past predicted
us. The street

poem

Mother, I have destroyed you. Forgive me as I am
destroyed. The submarine of you, mother, has, underwater,
shipped me off, has fired on me, is nuclear. Mother,
the gold tooth of me is stolen, the frayed cord of me
is broken, the scored record of me is frozen, the scratched
recording of me