A POEM by OLIVIA JACOBSON

I Love Iowa But Aunt Susie’s House Is Haunted

I hate sleeping in Jenni’s old room.
Me, mom, and Mark—
There’s lace curtains and flowers on the walls.
Mark went in there once
and found all the snow globes
upside down, balanced on the glass.
Now mom lets Mark sleep in the middle.
I can’t even lure Tuxie the cat in.

Grass is like beer to cows, Scott says.
The next morning,
I feed them grass
under the fence.
These meat cows make me sad,
their black hides and muscle.
Though we take steaks home,
use them as icepacks in the cooler
to keep dad’s beer cold.

This morning, before sun up,
I sneaked out and crawled under the fence.
A big milker came up this close and scared me.
But she only stood licking my hand,
blinking her long eyelashes all slow.

Tonight, Shane flew the army helicopter over the house,
he shined the spotlight right on the porch,
and Scott pulled his pants down to moon him.
All the grown-ups laughed and Jenni joined in,
her pregnant belly hanging.
She turned around,
and slid down her yoga pants
to show off her bright red thong.

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Olivia Jacobson (she/they) is an MFA candidate in poetry at Syracuse University. She is the editor-in-chief of Salt Hill Journal. Her chapbook, “On Junkyards,” won the Etchings Press Book Prize for Poetry (October 2025). Winner of the Charles Simic Poetry Prize (2025), her work appears or is forthcoming in Hole in the Head, The Florida Review, Moon City Review, Shō Poetry Journal, Outskirts Literary, and The Shore. Her work has received support from The Rockefeller Brothers Fund and The Hudson Valley Writer’s Center.