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nolabear

(43,849 posts)
Wed Jan 7, 2026, 08:45 PM Wednesday

She was an award-winning poet.

Under her late husband’s last name, Macklin. I am in a near-blind rage. The poetry community is trying to come up with a way to support her and her family.

https://poets.org/2020-on-learning-to-dissect-fetal-pigs

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She was an award-winning poet. (Original Post) nolabear Wednesday OP
Right there with you, my dear nolabear, with the near-blind rage. CaliforniaPeggy Wednesday #1
Sickening murder malaise Wednesday #2
I am just as pissed at trump and Noem, Bayard Wednesday #3
2020 Academy of American Poets Prize struggle4progress Wednesday #4
Thank you for making it easy to read. nolabear Wednesday #5

CaliforniaPeggy

(156,152 posts)
1. Right there with you, my dear nolabear, with the near-blind rage.
Wed Jan 7, 2026, 08:48 PM
Wednesday

The ICE people are way overstepping their "bounds" and I have had enough, more than enough, of their criminal ways.

Bayard

(28,640 posts)
3. I am just as pissed at trump and Noem,
Wed Jan 7, 2026, 09:12 PM
Wednesday

Calling this woman a domestic terrorist. Do they really think we haven't seen the videos? Its like them saying that the 1/6 mob were tourists!

struggle4progress

(125,388 posts)
4. 2020 Academy of American Poets Prize
Wed Jan 7, 2026, 09:19 PM
Wednesday
On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs
by Renée Nicole Macklin

i want back my rocking chairs,
solipsist sunsets,
& coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of
cockroaches.

i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores
(mashed them in plastic trash bags with an acidic himalayan salt lamp—
the post-baptism bibles, the ones plucked from street corners from the meaty hands of zealots, the
dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind):
remember more the slick rubber smell of high gloss biology textbook pictures; they burned the hairs
inside my nostrils,
& salt & ink that rubbed off on my palms.

under clippings of the moon at two forty five AM I study&repeat
ribosome
endoplasmic—
lactic acid
stamen
at the IHOP on the corner of powers and stetson hills—
i repeated & scribbled until it picked its way & stagnated somewhere i can’t point to anymore, maybe
my gut—
maybe there in-between my pancreas & large intestine is the piddly brook of my soul.

it’s the ruler by which i reduce all things now; hard-edged & splintering from knowledge that
used to sit, a cloth against fevered forehead.
can i let them both be? this fickle faith and this college science that heckles from the back of the
classroom

now i can’t believe—
that the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita are sliding long hairs behind my ear like mom
used to & exhaling from their mouths “make room for wonder”—
all my understanding dribbles down the chin onto the chest & is summarized as:
life is merely
to ovum and sperm
and where those two meet
and how often and how well
and what dies there.






nolabear

(43,849 posts)
5. Thank you for making it easy to read.
Wed Jan 7, 2026, 09:39 PM
Wednesday

I’m so very angry. I’d be angry if I didn’t relate so much, but I am furious. Listen to that thoughtful, intelligent voice. Stilled.

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