Bio: Claire Denson’s writing appears in The Iowa Review, The Cincinnati Review, The Missouri Review, The Massachusetts Review, and Literary Hub, among others. She has received awards and support from Brooklyn Poets, Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing, the University of Michigan, and the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, where she earned her MFA, taught English courses, consulted in the University Writing Center, and worked on The Greensboro Review. She now works for The Adroit Journal and Atmosphere Press andlives in Brooklyn, NY. Find her work online at clairedenson.com. Twitter @shmaireshmen and IG @clur_
above poem previously published in The Minnesota Review
Survival Skills
previously published in Girl Blood Info Zine
I came to the woods to live
deliciously. I came to the woods to walk
off a meatloaf. The small-talker
says you seem full
of existential dread I say maybe
I’ll be a dentist she says you must be
suicidal. I Google suicide rate
in dentists it says 100% I say are you
hungry she says a career
brings perspective. David Attenborough
coos hopeful in my brain but I know
it is unrealistic to expect the almighty
redwood to save the ravaged
forest. I know prayers
are impractical. From the stump
I dip my stick in flame,
talk about a game where broken
bones re-assemble. She asks me
do you practice religion? and
I swallow. My background of belief
rushes like a waterfall
then sinks: an emotion abstract
like home or love, left
crackling in the pit.
Have You Tried Yoga
previously published in UCity Review
Be like the turtle, go inside
your stress, the Buddhist says before
setting himself on fire. At the window
in the kitchen before the sink
it is not interesting to listen
to myself. Nothing changes
in the brain during meditation
for beginners, the neurologist
claims. Plate, pan, spatula, splattered
kettle; I scrub my fingertips
chapped. The yogi says send
your hips back, send your heart down
and though I try, I no longer know
how to cry. I stroke the thorns
on the aloe, notice new growth
of basil from the otherwise dying
stem. My mind knows time
is abstract and moves back
to the autumn street of childhood,
hands smashing cake as I watch
next year’s birthday pass
the same as today. I know meditation
is routine. I dry the last dish, walk
to my desk and write another
plan to erase.
Tender Poem
previously published in Stirring Lit
I saw a treadmill in the grass
when I passed on the train
the morning after we saw
the two baby deer scuttling
in the street and then a larger deer
dead. You said you once stared
at your dad’s pearl-handled
pistol, turned it over and over
in your palm. When I said
my hands get sad, that they
get so sad the feeling travels
up and I can’t move, you lifted
my arms in the shower one
by one tender as a mother
and I swear every single time I have
an emotion I forget about the world
before it. Listen. When we saw
the fawns running in circles
you promised they were happy
to be free; I tried
to memorize your hands
on the steering wheel. Because
at night when I hold on harder
than I’d like to admit, you don’t
flinch, just rub your thumb
against my fist and tell me
that sure maybe you’ll die
soon but probably not
and that it helps to remind myself
always keep looking at my feet.
How To Find What You’re Looking For Within
previously published in Juke Joint
A bullshit neighbor lent me a book on joy
Something something The Secret To Happiness And Success
And then he asked what connections I have for him to use
The universe doesn’t care about my feelings
I wish I could be more like the universe
I anticipate death like a distant wedding
They will serve hors d'oeuvres at the funeral of dreams
Ghosts in bowties delivering shrimp pâté
Your father takes a wrong turn and drives off the mountain
There is no one to lead you to your grave
We’re always so far away
I want to deny the universe
I’m resting my feet on the book on joy
What fine elevation
Till The Iron Soothes
after KC Green’s “On Fire”
previously published in Hobart
Like a baby ripping out
its own eyeballs, chewing
off its tongue, like that comic
of the dog drinking tea
at a table and smiling
as the room around him
erupts in flame: This is fine,
my mind welcomed
the heat,
the same way how,
after a long day,
a body welcomes
a shower that scorches
the skin red
when I asked her
how to slice my skin
safely, how sharp
the knife, or pin
or blade, the pressure
to place, how not to faint,
and weighed, aloud, risk
against desire. I measure
the humor
of every situation
based on its consequence.
So after I answer
the phone at midnight and deny
them my address, then answer
the knock at dawn, and after
the officer greets me,
and after he leaves,
and after the dean calls,
when she reaches out,
and I think to say,
well then, as we all know:
snitches get stitches
I smile instead,
biting my tongue till the iron soothes.
Fevers of the Mind 