Poetry: Selections From Keti Shea

feral

As in a horse needing breaking in, a real crying shame, the sheer waste of that face, what they mean is what a shame to waste that beauty on such a foul mouth, my daughter says I’m not like other mothers, which is fine by me, I don’t like anyone who lays claim to an identity as if it’s territory to colonize, they’re fucking boring anyway, I tell her without apologizing for the swear word because that’s our secret, we speak in code, us two, girl talk, two medusas with snakes for hair. Hiss, hiss, baby, watch mama do it, while I tell her I used to watch the sky as a girl, waiting for my people to call me home, come and claim me already, left to rot on this loser planet, aliens, nymphs, medusas, those are my kindreds, any thing part human part animal, full-tilt horror. 

She rubs my head with her hand while I read make-believe stories about fairies and monsters and evil and good, like there’s a difference, when in stories girls yell and kill for sport and scarf their food like dogs, so I read to remind her that girls can be monsters too, I read so she knows that monsters are magic too, realer than some dumb fucking story, and she understands I shaved my head so men wouldn’t see me, now all the girls say hello with their eyes, which travel up my face to my scalp, my head is a beacon, a litmus test, a Rorschach of desire: Do you see a monster or do you see a woman? Hiss hiss, baby. 

Come to mama, good thing you’re hot because you’re feral, my husband says, right after he trains me not to gulp food like a stray mutt or growl at the door or holler when angry, a thing only men can do, he thinks, and I take it as a compliment, because I am part monster, realer than any myth, a woman who would kill with bare hands if need be, and I am no murderer but I can sure see how it happens, yes ma’am sure can, not feral but wild, since I was never domesticated in the first place, what a shame. That pretty face.

 

 

 

why is my child crying?

the cut of her cheese does not match the shape of her cracker, time has moved too quickly and slowly all at once, hot white sun on face, sand in shoe, seam in socks, the words she said aloud were not the words she heard herself say in her head, the music of the world does not match the music of her body, she is ruled by textured color and birdsong riot, her lifeblood is a hobby and an afterthought for others, rules are an injustice, nothing but four narrow walls for the human spirit, undisciplined cries from the play yard, big soul small body, limbs cracking limbs, eyes that see meet brains that don’t think, music is patterns more legible than sound, A is for, B is for, C is for, learn this so you can forget what you know, parrot the answers, sit still, boredom is a niggling reminder of soul, schools make good factory workers, buy this, like this, forget to see:

light on glass, a prism of color. 

 

 

 

 

Keti Shea is a neurodivergent lawyer and writer based in Northern Colorado. Her work has appeared in Reverie Mag, Swim Press, Oranges Journal, Cosmorama, Inside Voice, Nuthole Publishing, Twenty Bellows, Libre Lit, Wild Roof Journal, and elsewhere. Her creative nonfiction piece “Bad Dick” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2024. Outside of writing and practicing law, she and her husband are busy renovating the 1912 nunnery they call home, where they live with their daughter. She can be found on Instagram and Bluesky @ketishea.