White Whale Review: An Online Literary Magazine Untitled Document
Kathleen Maris
Kathleen Maris's poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from Painted Bride Quarterly, ILK, Alice Blue Review, Thrush Poetry Journal, and other journals. A former Barnstorm Poetry Editor, she is now the Fall Residency Coordinator for the University of Iowa's International Writing Program.

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Kathleen Maris

from Twenty-First Century Woolly Mammoth



Immobility is madness.  Even the tiniest finger must move. 

Second dad moves his mind in his body his body doesn’t move at all.  Driftwood awaits. 

Each alphabet letter.  Blink builds.  The routine of thought of hunting words. 

Feed the dog scraps when he catches you a marmot. 

Carry him in sadness.  In Siberian arms when the bear tears him apart.

Kathleen Maris

from Twenty-First Century Woolly Mammoth



Five sons. First daughter and second daughter. Second dad has seven of us. 

We talk about hunting.  Vegetarianism.  You can’t fill a hole.  It doesn’t go like that.


Only mom is about to be a twenty-first century woolly mammoth.  Alone in the future.


Second daughter dedicated a boreal chorus frog to second dad.  

He laughed and cried.  Cried and laughed. 

When second daughter laughs she looks like a dolphin.  With not so many teeth.

Kathleen Maris

[It Was a Cruel Joke]



It was a cruel joke. I never even heard it first hand. The abandoned building next to the furniture store was an old whorehouse. Now it’s haunted. For months I had dreams of them – ladies leather ankle boots dangling. They’d been hung. They weren’t even whores. They were sisters, artists – their pinafores speckled with paint. One of them opened her eyes, told me, Beauty is your ability to apprehend it. Then one night after a Seinfeld episode and a seltzer, I left the sofa and climbed into bed. It was light outside. Actually, it was only the furniture store floodlight. I stared at it too long. When I looked back, it seemed as if the great bright space had moved into our dark room. I called, Marc, Marc, and you came and rearranged my hair.








Copyright © Kathleen Maris. White Whale Review, issue 7.1

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