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    The Fight
    The Fight
    The Fight
    Ebook85 pages30 minutes

    The Fight

    By Jennifer Manthey

    ()

    Read preview

    About this ebook

    Winner of the 2022 Trio Award, Jennifer Manthey's The Fight showcases Manthey's experience with adoption, alongside

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTrio House Press
    Release dateJul 1, 2023
    ISBN9781949487206
    The Fight
    Author

    Jennifer Manthey

    Jennifer Manthey is a writer and teacher. She lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with her husband, three children, and one Saint Bernard.

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      Book preview

      The Fight - Jennifer Manthey

      U.S. Embassy, Kinshasa, DRC

      Black men hold the door and hold

      guns. White men hold ink and stamps

      behind bulletproof glass. At each

      window, a vase with a single bird-

      of-paradise, which is the most

      tight-lipped of all the flowers.

      Black women softly

      speak their answers.

      We play the part of white women -

      dutiful, quiet. At the end

      of the afternoon, we leave with their babies.

      I.

      Referral Photograph: Baby Boy, One Month Old

      There should be no metaphor for lack

      of a mother. The blanket he is wrapped in,

      flash-lightened, is a blanket.

      His hands are hands,

      loosely closed. His eyes are half-shut

      or half-open, depending on

      how you look at them. The dust-dry ground

      beneath him is simply what it is: dirt.

      The Congo should be a richer country than most,

      that river running through it.

      The photo at its edges: white. Thin frame

      surrounding his new life.

      Research on the Color White

      Ropes of pearls

      on a woman’s

      bare chest;

      a lover’s teeth

      in the dark

      of night. In

      childhood, swans

      made beautiful endings

      and moved

      like slow ships.

      What wedding dress

      has ever lied?

      Beginnings are

      innocent.

      A vine wraps

      itself around

      the mailbox post,

      white with morning.

      Fists loosen. A lover

      becomes heavy. Snow

      sags the roof or

      sometimes sinks

      into an angel.

      Our eyes look away

      to spring and lily

      of the valley like girls

      in clusters of shade.

      Varina Davis, 1864, Morning

      I meet the sun

      with beveled indifference.

      Breakfastime, I see bullets

      filling all the bowls. Hear cannons in every

      clink. Spoons lie atop napkins like wives

      going to bed. Jefferson stands at the mirror

      adjusting his collar like something bad

      is about to happen.

      Then it happens.

      My only joy is the children— their laughter

      like plucking strings of a harp.

      I Meet My Child’s Birth Mother

      She says, This is what I want, and the embassy

      coughs us out like questions. There is traffic

      and the sound of bells.

      I see her sorrow waiting in deep pools

      of collarbone. Her smile is a hook

      in my skin or a kind of marriage.

      I leave her, return to my blank room

      where the moon comes out like faith— cool

      and distant and changing its shape.

      I escape her like a mine

      I fear will collapse. My hope

      is dusted off and still.

      Yes, this is what I want, she says, and her words

      float in air like ash

      or a song.

      Lure

      Before

      I took away your

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