Maggie Nipps

//

 

 

Each day I wake with a new fixation.

Today, a mourning ritual.

 

The act:

An envelope, tucked in, three sage
leaves and sealed with purple wax
dripped from a candle, waning

 

Whisper:

I resent the organic
the origin how
arcane the organs
I will an aria,
wild, inoperable

 

 

This afternoon, I watch Grey’s Anatomy and text
my mom to ask about her chemo. My favorite
line this episode: I resent an organ. I resent an organ.

 

//

 

I’m stitching an image—
blackberry juice running down
my sternum. I imagine the drippings,
sticky, tacky. My palm full of pulp.

 

 

The berry skin covered in little hairs.
Mammalian. The juice, just short
of milk. Then, the mulch
a mother. Oh mirror,
have my breasts
always been so fibrous?

 

//

 

Blackberries represent sorrow.
Though the vines, woven,
form protective wreaths.There are
no blackberry vines in the city—
my substitute, embroidery floss.

 

 

split stitch, a quick
fix. The thread
tangles to a bramble. Create
a sprig, but then, a needle pricks.

 

//

 

A text from my mom. Tired,
she says, and her fingernails
peeling up. She says she might
go to the farmers market for fresh fruit.

biography

MAGGIE NIPPS is a poet and playwright from Wisconsin, currently studying at the University of Iowa. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Figure 1, Sporklet, No ContactSip Cup, petrichor, and elsewhere. She co-edits the lit mag Afternoon Visitor.