Sepia stained the inside of my thigh,
as though I were an opened storybook.
A grimm's fairytale, perhaps, a tale of good
versus evil. Only, now it was because
his hands were dirty, and I was cleaner than
six in the morning, than trilliums and moss.
Sepia—melding of new blood,
bile in the pines and honeyed currants.
Jen Stein is a writer, an advocate, a mother and a finder of lost things. She lives in Fairfax, Virginia where she works in family homeless services to help find employment for people experiencing or at risk of homelessness. Her experience as an advocate, with healing and recovery, and expanding upon moments informs much of her writing. She studied Creative Writing at George Mason University, both as an undergraduate and in the MFA in Poetry program. Her work has recently appeared in Poetica Magazine, and is upcoming in Wood Becomes Bone, a series by ELJ Publications.