Thanks for joining me to celebrate another talented poet...Lynne Jensen Lampe. Lynne writes from her home in Missouri, and is active on social media. Please enjoy two poems from her award-winning collection Talk Smack to a Hurricane (Ice Floe Press, 2022) - "At the Other Hospital," and "The Tutorial" - and her poem "Jitter and Shimmer" (originally published in Isthmus Review).
At the Other Hospital
they pass pills in paper cups.
No one will gas her
with a rubber hand of god,
but here surgeons not
psychiatrists rule the halls,
here white coats spread across
the room like fat in a pan.
A young one needles Mama’s
vein again & again, vial
after vial of blood for tests.
Tubing tethers her body
to machines & her mind
straddles barbed wire,
the memory of six million.
At this moment her bones
hold just one doctor’s name.
Mengele. Nazi. Earlier today—
forced transport. Shoes,
clothes taken. Her fall,
a brain bleed, helicopter
ride to a city hospital.
Falling—her relentless fear.
When I was six on the down
escalator shopping at Prange’s
Mama made me stand in front
in case she tumbled. Today
she risks all for me.
Today I know she loves me.
A white coat, a mengele, taps
my shoulder. My Jewish mama
bolts upright, growls
you. can’t. have. my. daughter.
No one will gas her
with a rubber hand of god,
but here surgeons not
psychiatrists rule the halls,
here white coats spread across
the room like fat in a pan.
A young one needles Mama’s
vein again & again, vial
after vial of blood for tests.
Tubing tethers her body
to machines & her mind
straddles barbed wire,
the memory of six million.
At this moment her bones
hold just one doctor’s name.
Mengele. Nazi. Earlier today—
forced transport. Shoes,
clothes taken. Her fall,
a brain bleed, helicopter
ride to a city hospital.
Falling—her relentless fear.
When I was six on the down
escalator shopping at Prange’s
Mama made me stand in front
in case she tumbled. Today
she risks all for me.
Today I know she loves me.
A white coat, a mengele, taps
my shoulder. My Jewish mama
bolts upright, growls
you. can’t. have. my. daughter.
The Tutorial
Plastic bouffant wig for me,
Vidal Sassoon five-point cut
for her. Mama tunes out Twiggy,
wriggles into girdle, half slip
& bra. We both watch her face
in the mirror as she angles
white pearl across her lips, dips
a little brush in water then shadow,
purples her lids with Mary Quant.
Mama slips into the blue sheath,
pats powder on her nose & chin,
snaps the compact shut. I dig
through my shoebox of Avon
samples, inch-long tubes
of grease & sunrise: reds, corals,
magentas, pink frosts. She
spritzes Topaz inside each wrist,
hers & mine. I want
what I can’t yet name.
I want her glamour. I want
her. She pops on white oval shades,
grabs the keys to the Corvair.
Rubs my kiss from her cheek
with spit & a thumb.
Vidal Sassoon five-point cut
for her. Mama tunes out Twiggy,
wriggles into girdle, half slip
& bra. We both watch her face
in the mirror as she angles
white pearl across her lips, dips
a little brush in water then shadow,
purples her lids with Mary Quant.
Mama slips into the blue sheath,
pats powder on her nose & chin,
snaps the compact shut. I dig
through my shoebox of Avon
samples, inch-long tubes
of grease & sunrise: reds, corals,
magentas, pink frosts. She
spritzes Topaz inside each wrist,
hers & mine. I want
what I can’t yet name.
I want her glamour. I want
her. She pops on white oval shades,
grabs the keys to the Corvair.
Rubs my kiss from her cheek
with spit & a thumb.
Jitter and Shimmer
Maybe it means nothing, the pile of dead
bugs on the corner of my desk. I smash
another brown recluse with a wire cutter,
fingernail-flick dried flies into wings and legs.
Honky tonk on the stereo, second G&T half gone,
you’re in the kitchen waiting. Give me
ten, I say, and step into the shower.
You are not young. I am not wise. We
are a shock of black-eyed susans wilting.
The box of love crickets you gave me
lies on the floor, lid askew. A branch moves
outside the window. Sunlight shafts
my bedroom and they sing.
The prescription on the plastic envelope reads
“Use 1 gram per vagina weekly.” Lucky me!
I’ll have enough for all my vaginas, I say.
Some women don’t have any, you say.
We drink whiskey from plastic cups.
I ride along your thigh to the only music
that matters: the hum inside my jeans,
more power line than treble clef.
I am young. You have talent and curls.
Clouds clot a sky that only one of us sees.
I steal anger and tomato the shed. This not-me
pleasures in the spurt of pulp and seed,
readies for the next slap of rain.
bugs on the corner of my desk. I smash
another brown recluse with a wire cutter,
fingernail-flick dried flies into wings and legs.
Honky tonk on the stereo, second G&T half gone,
you’re in the kitchen waiting. Give me
ten, I say, and step into the shower.
You are not young. I am not wise. We
are a shock of black-eyed susans wilting.
The box of love crickets you gave me
lies on the floor, lid askew. A branch moves
outside the window. Sunlight shafts
my bedroom and they sing.
The prescription on the plastic envelope reads
“Use 1 gram per vagina weekly.” Lucky me!
I’ll have enough for all my vaginas, I say.
Some women don’t have any, you say.
We drink whiskey from plastic cups.
I ride along your thigh to the only music
that matters: the hum inside my jeans,
more power line than treble clef.
I am young. You have talent and curls.
Clouds clot a sky that only one of us sees.
I steal anger and tomato the shed. This not-me
pleasures in the spurt of pulp and seed,
readies for the next slap of rain.
Lynne Jensen Lampe’s poems appear in or are forthcoming from many journals, including Stone Circle Review, THRUSH, Rise Up Review, and Yemassee. She often writes about mother-daughter relationships, mental illness, and antisemitism - themes found in her debut collection, Talk Smack to a Hurricane (Ice Floe Press, 2022), a 2023 Eric Hoffer Book Award winner in poetry. She edits academic writing and lives in mid-Missouri with her husband, two dogs, and a friendly number of dust bunnies. Online at: https://lynnejensenlampe.com; Bluesky @ljensenlampe; or, IG @lynnejensenlampe.