by Mia Leonin

My maker unfastened the branch from heaven’s hinge

And with that branch,

She pried open the three-poisoned god in me

And from that god,

She shook out the three-cornered sack of culpability in me

And from that sack,

She produced a three-pronged compass that unmoored the navigator in me

And from that navigator,

My maker ungendered the tri-phallus, triple-breasted woman in me

And from that woman,

My maker stippled a three-cornered quilt of kindness in me

And that quilt

Comforted the three-chimed loneliness in me

And that loneliness

Tuned the three-tongued oratorio in me

And the oratorio

Reverberated in the beak of the three-trilled bird

Who reached me just in time to tell you that

In the garden’s conjugations of war, envy, and greed,

You are beauty

And the infinitive of beauty is

to be.

______________________________________________________________________

Mia Leonin is the author of four poetry collections: Fable of the Pack-Saddle Child (BkMk Press), Braid, Unraveling the Bed, and Chance Born (Anhinga Press), and a memoir, Havana and Other Missing Fathers (University of Arizona Press). Leonin has published poetry and creative nonfiction in New Letters, Prairie Schooner, Guernica, Indiana Review, Witness, North American Review, and others. She teaches creative writing at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, Florida.

by Mia Leonin

Just like that a barge drifted from my throat, listing 

from icy Nordic waters to the warm Mississippi Delta. 

Just like that I shook the moon from its claw 

and realized funnel cake magic was just powdered sugar. 

Just like that a concussion became a memory of betrayal, a pack 

toted off on the missing hump of a camel. 

Just like that I made peace with heaven 

and whether or not I was going to be invited to the after party. 

Just like that I traded in my many dresses for one 

then crawled out of that one and got on with my day. 

Just like that my dad—well, yeah, him. 

Just like that my mother’s pointer finger 

landed on Mars and transmitted satellite info 

from the worm in her bosom  

to the flower in my breast 

from the yowl of her silence 

to the om of my omniscience 

from her sidewinding 

to my stomping through 

from her branding and rebranding our life 

to my five-word review: Lunch. Table. Eat. Starve. Repeat. 

from her stomped blossoms and overburdened nightgowns 

to my room with a slit of mirror and salty lamp light. 

Just like that, mom came and went. 

When she touched me, she made no touches show 

and when she put on her face, a show for the millions, 

the laugh track guffawed at full force slobbering vodka to gin. 

Just like that, God doles out her punishment 

in the form of unfettered happiness 

and we are forced to build a stronger fort 

or ram our pole into the mud and push off 

from the creek’s sandy bank 

toward a farther, glittering shore.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Mia Leonin is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Chance Born (Anhinga Press), as well as a memoir, Havana and Other Missing Fathers (University of Arizona Press). A book-length poem, Fable of the Pack Saddle Child, was published by BkMk Press in 2018 with illustrations by Cuban artist, Nereida García Ferraz. Leonin has written extensively about theater and culture for the Miami Herald, New Times, and other publications. She teaches creative writing at the University of Miami.