A Collection of Poetry

From the Bluestockings Community ✦

Bluestockings is, above all, a space for voices, stories, and ideas worth sharing. This piece was submitted by a member of our community and selected for our blog because it made us think, feel, question, or see something differently. The words that follow belong to its author, and we’re honored to give them a space to be heard.

About the Author: Jennifer Gawinski Cuming is a poet from Wisconsin who was born and raised in the Chicago area. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Local Gems Poetry Press anthologies, Summur, Orange Rose Literary Magazine, Magnolia Literary Magazine, Persephone Literary Magazine, The Raven Review, Luminaura, and other publications. Her poetry explores memory, grief, love, family, and resilience through vivid imagery and personal narrative.

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The Chosen Rose

His gentle hand chose me from all the rest,

the other roses of a sweet bouquet.

Thumbs tracing all the petals in caress,

my velvet tips open and bloom his way.

He holds me to his face to smell my scent,

inhales then lingers here with me for more.

He gazes slowly, studies each indent

from every shade of red, to stem and thorn.

He places me upon his chest, his heart,

presses me close to him, to warm and love.

And shields me from the cold, protects each part.

For him to keep me safe is just enough.

The softest hand I’ve ever known, so kind,

still holds me every day—just in my mind.

His Gentle Hand

His is the hand that holds me close to him,

the hand that wipes the teardrops when I cry.

The hand whose touch brought warmth to my cold skin,

the hand that never waved his last goodbye.

His is the hand that took my mouth to his,

the hand that stroked my hair, my cheek, and lips.

The hand that held me longer for a kiss,

the hand that knew my curves and held my hips.

His is the hand that held me when I fell,

the hand that steadied every step I’d take.

The hand that showed me where to go so well,

and held mine through each journey that I’d make.

The gentle hand that opened every door

still guides my way, now and forever more.

Grasp My Hand

You left too soon—

my lips couldn’t kiss yours

one last time,

couldn’t give another I love you

nor a proper goodbye.

I look for your spirit

in every word, every song.

I search for you

in every crowd,

the back of someone’s head

giving me hope,

but I cannot reach out—

the apparition isn’t you.

I trust you’ll take a different form

when at last I see you again.

Even if I do not see your face,

I’ll know you—

you’ll still have the same grace.

Grasp my hand

anyhow,

when I pass.

Lead the way.

I’ll gladly follow you

so that we’ll never part again.

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Have a story of your own? ✦

Our first-ever Bluestockings magazine issue, A Thread Unraveled, is coming soon. Through poetry, prose, essays, photography, visual art, and everything in between, we’re exploring the threads that shape us: the people we meet, the stories we inherit, the paths we lose and find, and the experiences that transform us. Stay close. The first thread is about to unravel.