Marina Kraiskaya: Your new collection of poetry, jump the gun, has many references to American daily life and culture, whether to a local Kmart, a sitcom like Roseanne, an actor like Jack Nicholson, a country star like Tanya Tucker, or alluding to more systemic issues while braiding in the biblical.

 

Camille Dungy once said in an interview that “There are American poetries. There is no one American poetry.” I am curious how you might expand on this statement, if you agree with it, and what or who you personally imagine to constitute this wide category.

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Jennie Malboeuf: The Dungy interview you reference is spot on. And that was 15 years ago. With everything as broken and splintered as it is now, it reads like prophecy. I do namedrop some Americana, for good or ill, I suppose. But I recognize that these figures ring familiar to me and may not for everyone. This was my corner of America, in the Upland South, from the 1980s onward—and these folks were placed in front of me. So, I tried to get behind the lens of who I was and who I knew then. Where I guess I differ slightly is that I see all the broken pieces as essentially American. American intentions aren't often altruistic. We help because we like to control; we fight with each other more than for each other. Ironically, maybe that's American poetry: conflict, rebellion, demise? Those pop figures I utilize mostly make me sad in some way, or scared, or uncomfortable.

 

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MK: Interesting! Memorable (to me) poems that address societal issues are always sharp-tongued and aware of the why and how of the situation. As are yours. The following excerpt is from one of my favorite poems from jump the gun. The poem is called “Etymology of Gun”:

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war war like an echo, a ringing in the ear. In the armed forces,

soldiers are told to name their rifles, to love them, own them.

  The worst shooting in America for sixteen years was at the Luby’s

        in Killeen, Texas. He hated women. One of his victims wanted

more guns after he felled both her parents and failed to end her.                                                                       Man has always found a way to kill himself, turn a weed flower                                            into a gun instead of a crown. My mother first lived in a shotgun

       house: all the bedrooms on one side of the building, safely tucked                   

       away. The story was you could get a clean line from one end

     to the other—front door to back—a bullet entering the home

         without obstacle.​

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MK: In this poem, much of the language alludes to how the speaker’s family history (and national history) is inextricable from the ingenuity of weapons and the language that comes from that: our colloquial gun-related expressions are endless: “shotgun house,” “shotgun wedding,” “bite the bullet,” “shoot yourself in the foot,” “under the gun,” “trigger happy”—they are so ever-present that it took me a second to realize how much violence there actually is behind them. Maybe normalizing these sayings is a collective way of approaching the topic and lessening the fear of getting hurt, especially in communities where gun violence is common.​ What tones and conversations in life around guns have you found thought-provoking?

 

JM: First, thank you for the kind words. To the point, I reckon you are what you eat. Maybe American idioms circle around guns because this violent tone is our true essence. We want others to see us as tough, so why not talk the talk too? And this is how we solve problems. I will say I'm drawn to a dramatic delivery and a pragmatic theory in poetry. And I'm sick of the nonresponse we have to unnecessary warfare. In this poem and another, "The Mass Shooter of the Day...," I did want the reader to feel as I did: that we could be next. We are all soft targets. I graduated from high school in the same year as Columbine. Virginia Tech's shooting took place early in my teaching career. Many older Millennials felt the seismic shifts in real time. 

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MK: A cultural romanticization of motherhood is pushed against in this book. The speaker is candid about the complexities and futilities of pregnancy, having a baby, and raising a child. After establishing themes of violence with poems like “The Mass Shooter of the Day Lived on My Childhood Street”, the poem “Blonde boy” toward the end is powerful in its blunt portrayal of a specific modern fear. The speaker asks not just “how can I keep my child safe?” but reveals fraught realities that parents don’t often bring to light: How do I not raise a boy that could eventually hurt someone? Why have children in a burning world? These moments are both tender and brutal:

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but this world has always been yours.

throwing and hitting, we know now already

what you will be, could become.

a boy’s boy, a man’s man.

how do i raise another

in a line of so many who have done such harm?

i look at your face and see my father,

i look at your face and see my own

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This honesty felt liberating, even as there is no one easy resolution. Do you see poetry as a unique space to discuss these topics without the rose-colored glasses one might be pressured to wear? I’m curious about how writing might hold a wider expanse of space in your relationship to these questions, what new associations opened up for you to motherhood, and how it felt to write the poem.

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JM: Good gracious, yes! Poetry is a true safe space for many voices that feel quieted elsewhere. It's funny: I never struggle to collect a well-rounded army of writers in the poetry I share teaching. And I don't turn to someone again unless they've shaken me to the core. Lucille Clifton's "the lost baby poem" lives inside my head. Sylvia Plath, Terrance Hayes, recently Alice White have all spoken to parenting or being parented in such illuminating and tricky ways.

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For me specifically, I was scared to death to have a baby. Nervous of how to mold a little person. And then the added weight of gender complicates the experience. Yet, I chose to take this on. I want to use my anxiety to my advantage: what should I look out for really with this little boy? If the universe isn't just random, if we're given a task, what's my responsibility here? I always thought if I had to raise myself again, another girl, what could I do to help empower her? Now, in this position, what job am I presented with?

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MK: Thank you for calling out that poem and those writers. Another major theme of the book is that of humans as animals, as well as what animals (like the speaker’s dog) mean to us. The poem “Making a man” reminds me of Adam being introduced to each animal. Another poem about the passage of time references this Miller Williams poem.

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Other associations are darker as the speaker explores extremes of the body, like the symbolism of a snake in a knot, a dog “labored and spent”, or “a pit bull b l o o d i e d on the porch.” Other poems recognize, in the background of their conceit, that animals are not ashamed, guilty, regretful, or envious, and that a traumatized animal can cause harm. How did perceived differences and potential similarities inform your exploration of the animal body and its symbolism throughout the collection?

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JM: My husband and I talk about this often: he says animals, especially dogs, are little windows to the divine. Our dog that we raised from a pup just passed away at almost 13, so I know this to be true. For me, animals are ready-made living metaphors. Betty White used to say animals "level with you." They aren't kind, necessarily. We misunderstand them in that expectation. But they are more honest in the truest sense. It's weird to say, but my dog knew she was beautiful. And wise and strong. No question. That knowing and not doubting—that's what I admired in her the most. And she was damn loyal. Throughout my pregnancy, during the pandemic, she was my only companion. She slept beside me every night for nine months. Yet, even in their divinity, animals can hurt themselves. They react or act on impulse. Nuance is mostly strange to them. When we think of the self, we need both the physical and the intellectual parts to balance. 

 

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MK: How did you make the choice to use the unique spacing (b l o o d i e d) that appears in some of the poems?

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JM: I love a kinetic moment. Paige Lewis and May Swenson come to mind. Some of the words needed to be tiny explosions. Perhaps little reminders that every mess can't be made neat.

 

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MK: The cyclical nature of chaos and trauma is beautifully contained in “The Human Animal”, a villanelle about Charles Manson. The repetition emphasizes the darkness of his life, and I wonder if he represents the madness in anyone. Lines like “he invented God, who invented murder” and “there were all kinds of Jesuses” conjure both psychological questions of why people mythologize and how the mind can rationalize extreme violence. It ties into later poems that allude to how animals can manipulate: “there’s a yellow moth in China that makes like a bat to jump / his mate. he hums a whisper song / so she’ll move in close, thinking she needs him, she’s in danger.”

 

The way some of the poems turn or conclude gives me a sense of remove, like the speaker is seeking out objective or hardline truths by weighing rot against sweetness. It results in some intense imagery. How conscious was detachment in your process?

 

JM: Well, Charles Manson did say all that shit. And he did represent some American madness, cruelty, and a cycle of violence. He isn't to be pitied but he is to be examined. I want the reader to stay alert. And, yes, I do tend to rack the focus a bit. I think if I get too self-involved, it's best to look elsewhere for a spell. Hopefully, some dots connect for the reader in the meantime. 

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