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About this poet

Jennifer Givhan grew up in Southern California’s Imperial Valley. She received an MFA from Warren Wilson College and an MA in English literature from California State University–Fullerton. She is the author of Protection Spell (University of Arkansas Press, 2017), selected by Billy Collins for inclusion in the Miller Williams Series, and Landscape with Headless Mama (Louisiana State University Press, 2016), winner of the 2015 Pleiades Editors’ Prize. Givhan has received a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship and a PEN/Rosenthal Emerging Voices fellowship. She currently serves as the poetry editor of Tinderbox Poetry Journal and lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.


“It’s time you learn to scrub a chicken.”
    Mama rarely cooked after working all day—her heart wasn’t in it.
But a daughter should know how to sterilize

that pink, ominous cavern before she flew
    away to salt her own kitchens: pry its legs apart
& reach inside to scoop as if the bird was pregnant.

When I moved out that winter, pregnant
    & fat like nobody’s business but still too chicken to tell
Mama, I took up with a boy who tore apart

our piss cold apartment looking for the piece of his heart he
    swore I’d eaten. He claimed it flew
into my belly & before I gave it back, I’d need to sterilize

it. So I ran around that damn flat with wipes to sterilize every
    counter & crevice. Not only was I pregnant &
compulsive, but news had spread that flu

had reached pandemic level—this time from swine not chickens.
    I’d read that pregnant women were more susceptible to heart failure.
I figured that also meant the tiny throbbing pink part

in my belly. I never studied anatomy, apart
    from an odd encounter with a college boy who tried to sterilize my body
with his tongue. It didn’t work but left heart-

shaped scars along my chest & thighs, each mark pregnant with
    blood, a strawberry patch or the red wattle of a chicken.
I’d begun to waddle around in baggy sweats a few

weeks since seeing Mama. She’d suspected the “more than a few
    pounds” I’d gained, flinging accusations, shredding me apart
for acting the slut I was. I’d heard it before—she’d squawk chicken

shrills until I broke down. She’d peck at me to sterilize
    my body like the kitchen, the chicken, my own pink pregnant belly
ache. She’d have had me scoop out my own heart

to make a point. I don’t think I could live without a heart.
    I’d lived without anyone but Mama since the summer we flew over
the Grand Canyon away from dad. Mama was pregnant

then. That didn’t last long. I was eleven when she clawed apart the
    bathroom, not the kitchen, scrubbing the tub to sterilize
it for a bath, I’d guessed. I’d have asked but was too chicken.

The trick was to keep apart from her long enough for my heart to
    sterilize itself & keep that pink baby from cleansers or flu
or Mama’s broken chicken heart. The trick was to stay pregnant.

From Landscape with Headless Mama (Pleiades Press, 2016). Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Givhan. Used with the permission of the author.

From Landscape with Headless Mama (Pleiades Press, 2016). Copyright © 2016 by Jennifer Givhan. Used with the permission of the author.

Jennifer Givhan

Jennifer Givhan

Jennifer Givhan is the author of Protection Spell (University of Arkansas Press, 2017). She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

by this poet


that failed to make a strong bond with its mother
& was shipped from a Florida zoo to New Mexico’s

(they’d struck a deal with the dairy farm for that baby
would drink thousands of gallons of cow’s milk)

that calf in the corner who doesn’t know I’m watching her


*To gradually steal all the possessions out of a neighbour’s house by borrowing & not returning —Anjana Iyer

Your mother slaps a frenzy of honey on her plain soft bread
asking where the toaster’s gone & where’s her thieving


Come find me under the black persimmon tree    Mama
where prayers bear wrinkled fruit     bear messages home

Come tend me at sunrise    like sweeping
a grave    offering fresh tortillas

rolled each morning