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About this poet

Emily Hunerwadel is the author of Professional Crybaby (Poetry Society of America, 2018), selected by Kyle Dargan as the winner of a 2017 Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship. Hunerwadel is the managing editor of Slope Editions and media editor of jubilat. She lives in Western Massachusetts.

Sexy poem to cover my bases

I think a lot about the character everybody wanted to put babies inside of
a lot about cracked statues recovered satellites

I think a lot about voyager
I think a lot about gold
I think a lot about that thing the fork is going into

Are you ever the thing the fork is going into?
Are you ever driving through cotton fields at night
and everything around you is a pillow?

What words are you whispering into my pillow?
What words cast the spell that puts the babies inside of me?
What words make the moon just something good to look at but no place to go?

If I’m looking at my window and hear the hawk, is that the signal?
I think a lot about the longer my hair grows, the farther you are
about your face in my hair

I think a lot about becoming a pill you can swallow
I think a lot about growing my hair into a tent

Copyright © 2018 by Emily Hunerwadel. This poem originally appeared in Professional Crybaby (Poetry Society of America, 2018). Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2018 by Emily Hunerwadel. This poem originally appeared in Professional Crybaby (Poetry Society of America, 2018). Used with permission of the author.

Emily Hunerwadel

Emily Hunerwadel

Emily Hunerwadel is the author of Professional Crybaby (Poetry Society of America, 2018), selected by Kyle Dargan as the winner of a 2017 Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship. Hunerwadel is the managing editor of Slope Editions and media editor of jubilat. She lives in Western Massachusetts.

by this poet

poem

She’s saying
I wish there could be a metaphorical
investigative committee
and I’m saying
therapy or a priest?

and, behind us,
the excellence of bright children

and, on our walk home,
the left glove

and I’m saying
I’m fueled by kissing and crimes

poem

I have this disease. It involves perching at parties like some dark owl and slowly shifting into a circling vulture. But I've cracked a couple things like bones against a cliff. For one, every body is a capsule—a collection of lighters, lucky pennies, and pocket lint. And two, there’s