Blue Dots

by Misty Kiwak Jacobs


Geckos with visible hearts like
blue dots of ink gather, have

gathered, each summer night
for 35 years, saying, doing, nothing

just resting in the spirit like
a Quaker meeting. The smallest ones

find the breezy seams in the windows,
pass through, slip

behind a picture frame,
die if I don’t find them.

The first woman to live in this house
felt her uterus calcify here

a stone monument to life
hollow under her dress

her children unable to cling
to the slick hard walls inside her

the canal bank behind this house
broke, water flooded in, seeped back out

through the walls, softening them.
My husband and I bought the house

there can be no such thing as curses
“fecundity is a gift, an end of marriage”[1]

and still, life slipped from me.
Cursed shall be your basket

and cursed your mixing bowl[2]
cursed my womb as jets fly overhead,

full bellied and benign. I search
the smallest, most unlikely places:

behind the picture frames
between the dusty spines of books.                         

Where are the children?
Scent of orange blossom, incense

from an empty thurible,
I carry the lizards outside.




[1] Catechism of the Catholic Church, #2266
[2] Deuteronomy 28:17

An Arizona native and recent transplant to upstate New York, Misty Kiwak Jacobs is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College and a Master of Divinity Candidate at Yale. A Pushcart Prize nominated essayist, her work has appeared in The Sarah Lawrence Review, Red Rock Review, and Minerva Rising, among others.