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Jenne' Andrews is an American poet. She has three published chapbooks including the recent Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, Finishing Line Press 2013.

A full-length collection, Reunion, Lynx House Press, was published in 1983; after a long hiatus to raise Golden Retrievers in Colorado, recent work has appeared in The Passionate Transitory, Belletrist Coterie, The Adirondack Review and Vox Populi, a journal of culture, politics and poetry published and edited by the august Michael Simms.

A bilingual collection of "Italiana," Bocca, Voce, Delirio, with translations by Lorenzo Luciani, will be released by Finishing Line at the end of 2016 and her latest collection, And Now, the Road, a finalist for the Autumn House prize in 2014, will be released by Salmon Poetry Ltd, Ireland, a highly regarded international house, Jessie Lendennie, Publisher, circa 2017.

Andrews holds the MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry from Colorado State University, is a literary fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts, and was full-time Poet in Residence for the St. Paul Schools from '74-78. She lived in St. Paul from 1971-78 during the first wave of the Twin Cities literary renaissance, and spent the summer of 1973 in Reggio Calabria, Italy.

The poet lives in northern Colorado's Poudre River Valley with her husband, fiction writer Jack Brooks; the couple has recently imported two British Golden Retrievers and expects a litter in June-- see the Ardorgold website for details. Contact: jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Saturday, March 5, 2011

NICU -- Graphic Content Warning.



NICU

Now that I have poured over photographs
Of the six month-gestated twins
I cannot imagine how if you touched one
It wouldn’t disintegrate from the inference
Of touch alone

Wizened, tiny, forced into life 
Crisis on crisis, bagging, 
brought back
Glad of it they are not my twins then
I would extinguish them
To spare them what the misfired 
love of their parents
Forces them to endure.

Fathom it; one has an iv in his head,
He bloats blue black with infection
His mother sits writing in her journal
Of her love for him while he writhes
In anguish

He is so minute he cannot cry;
he peeps, like a hatchling.
He has a spine that ends in an anus
He has twigs for legs and arms.

What is the meaning
of "humane"?  I cannot fathom it. 
And if I had a child in this state
Born too soon from me
I would press it to my breast
To stop its breath.

Perhaps not.  But we have no right
To force that which wishes to die,
To live.  Another dark shame
For the books: Stick babies
With their plum-sized heads
Their wrinkled skin in saran wrap

Kudos and high fives
To the doctors who build their careers
On this.


Copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011

1 comment:

Kim Nelson said...

Jenne,
This is a touching tribute; and I hope a cathartic project for you.
We often cannot discern the wisdom in others'decisions.
I admire that you found a way,in the last three lines to usher in some tranquility,some peace.