Now, Sisters

"Now, Sisters" was published in The Irish Literary Review.

Jessica Popeski is a Classical Voice and Creative Writing graduate from Brandon University, where she was granted a distinction for her poetry thesis, Big Sky. Sickle Moon. in August 2013. Her poetry has been exhibited at the Glen P. Sutherland Gallery of Art, and published internationally in Acta Victoriana, The Cadaverine, carte blanche, The Irish Literary Review, Canvas Magazine, Boston Poetry, Room, The Cannon’s Mouth, Myths of the Near Future, and forthcoming in The Coachella Review, Pudding Magazine and Harbinger Asylum. In June 2014, she was a featured reader in Toronto’s Art Bar Poetry Series. She was raised, for the most part, in Moscow, Russia, and Sheffield, England, by her mother and grandmother, and writes poetry from her apartment in Little Italy, Toronto.


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Monday's Poem
"Now, Sisters" was published in The Irish Literary Review. Jessica Popeski is a Classical Voice and Creative Writing graduate from Brandon University, where she was granted a distinction for her poetry thesis, Big Sky. Sickle Moon. in August 2013. Her poetry has been exhibited at the Glen P. Sutherland Gallery of Art, and published internationally in Acta Victoriana, The Cadaverine, carte blanche, The Irish Literary Review, Canvas Magazine, Boston Poetry, Room, The Cannon’s Mouth, Myths of the Near Future, and forthcoming in The Coachella Review, Pudding Magazine and Harbinger Asylum. In June 2014, she was a featured reader in Toronto’s Art Bar Poetry Series. She was raised, for the most part, in Moscow, Russia, and Sheffield, England, by her mother and grandmother, and writes poetry from her apartment in Little Italy, Toronto.		© 2015 by Jess Popeski Now, Sisters If all I learned to be is small, shrink string bean slim, to eat the least, to eat last, once everyone is sleeping, seismic wave snoring, perched stork-like, one-legged to the fridge’s celestial glow, its hum a hymn. If this I inherited from my grandmother, and her grandmother, and her grandmother, to use my littlest voice, the shrapnel of it, meant for inside only, among quilted cushions, to write ditties and diaries, despite my studying, slowly, to fatten, to take up more room, inching in, elbows at severe angles, I will ask my sisters, once brothers, now sisters, more woman than I will likely ever be, stiletto-stilted, silver shadow to their eyebrows, wigged and gorgeous, who wear the garb of our history, but glittering and light, to bring the size, they say, their forefathers lent them, to ask loud questions on behalf of us all.
about us ::: guidelines ::: contact ::: order ::: chapbooks ::: Monday's Poem