Poems by Jen Karetnick
Upon Finding a Decapitated Muscovy Duck, I Think of a Stolen Greek Statue on Display at the Louvre
At the bend of the Little River, clouds
of young coconuts, stripped by profligate
winds and rain, shape themselves into tidal
drapery, into bob-and-weave refuse,
into climate-change metaphors the trash
boat driver chases as if it is a game,
scooping rotten green balls into a gamy
net strapped to the front along with cloudy
milk jugs, beer bottles, the usual trashy
bottom feeders that flip and twist, profligate
with anxiety. The water can’t refuse
its burdens any more than our tidal
bloodstreams can, unless it dries into tidal
pools that trap marine animals into game
to be plucked for study or dinner, fused
with butter. Reflecting themselves, clouds
begin to drink and deepen—profligate,
prodigal marble. Before they trash
me with downpours that raise sewage like trash,
I pause with the dogs to watch the tide
wash up a pair of wings against the floodgate,
extended as if in flight from larger game,
each feathered hump stamped with a snowy cloud
where it attaches to the torso. Refusing
to sink, the Muscovy duck was also refused
its own head and neck, those parts clearly trashed
elsewhere as this Niké lacks the blood to cloud
the water. That doesn’t stop a tidal
wave of turtles from yanking at it, a game
of tug-of-war so intense the profligate
reptiles proceed to towboat it. Profligate
eaters, they’re omnivorous, refusing
almost nothing from their diets, not even game
birds that tumble as mystical trash
from death rituals into the outgoing tide.
Oh, Winged Victory. As the darting, jade cloud
drags it under, taking profligate bites, trashing
the duck into burial refuse—a sunken tidal
skeleton—I play sorrow games with clouds.
And Now, at 57, a Sonnet from Your Zit
I blow up from underneath the placid
pond in between chin and mouth. I poison
the filtered bisqueware of your complexion.
Lernean Hydra, I am the narrative
of extant youth. I compete with the folds
from frowns, the crows’ feet etched by the sun’s
stylus, the splotches left from bearing children,
the chicken pox scars that are decades old.
Even menopause can’t quite vanquish me,
though it tries by deleting your hormones.
I feed on stress, the losses and gains
of weight, the immune system down with flu.
The problem is, I want to be noticed.
Pick me! Pick me! I weep—until I cease.
Jen Karetnick is the author of 13 collections of poetry, including Inheritance with a High Error Rate (January 2024), winner of the 2022 Cider Press Review Book Award and semi-finalist for the PSV 2025 North American Book Awards. Forthcoming books include Domiciliary (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2026) and Organ Language (Lit Fox Books, 2026). She is co-founder/managing editor of SWWIM Every Day.
Table of Contents for A Formal Feeling