Jeannine Shackelton

Suckling Grette was the second child of three dead siblings, cut wicks before the lantern lit in her mother's womb. And being conceived after the horns and whistles blew striking the New Year, wound the clock and clung to time like a licked love letter yet delivered. Late stamps come in many colors. Her's was October orange when leaves swabbed in iodine prep for surgery and trees slip on bark gloves. In two hours flat, they carved the toothless pumpkin and she began to glow. Never knew her Mutter's breasts though, gathered beneath raw wool, crackling like bone grass. Goat's milk taught her climbing peaks and taut form. She had a stomach full by seventeen and let go.

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