sound of chromosomes

There is no continental drift to xx. Glacial voice elevates between top teeth and soft palate, swallow inbox groans. No matter how hard one tries to expel nomenclature, the minor keys linger in all-night gas stations. My lovely contagion, wifi, beep beep bops its way to a century of silent films. Bottomless lust shattered commercials in outer space. My xx cannot nail down a simple one minute sound bite. I will announce how symbolic this is. My xx is not listed in emoticons. Channel seven stole my cat who ate the wishbone and regurgitated into smart phones and protest signs. My xx is smarter than your online chat but too emotional to practice an off switch. Make a boom boom base –no bronze hat rat tat tats. No virtue. Its sound cloud carves up pavement and old fashioned pool halls. My xx knows no resignation, emanates rage the exact moment lips get caught in a zipper. My xx is the feeling of bombastedness – stand back, play back that base.


Jennifer MacBain-Stephens went to NYU but currently lives in the D.C. area with her family. She is the author of three chapbooks: Every Her Dies (ELJ Publications,) Clotheshorse (Finishing Line Press, 2014,) and Backyard Poems (Dancing Girl Press, forthcoming 2015.) Recent work can be seen / is forthcoming at Toad Suck Review, The Poetry Storehouse, Flapperhouse, Pretty Owl Poetry, Yes, Poetry, Gargoyle Magazine, Jet Fuel Review, Uprooted: an Anthology on Gender and Illness, and Hobart. Her latest chapbook, Jeanne was a finalist in the Grey Book Press chapbook contest and the recent Blood Pudding Press contest. For more, visit:

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