Born from this sorrow, fury climbs her spine
and the sterile twigs of barren tree branches scrape
the winter windows of her home abundant
with noise where the children number
four, even so she is alone changing
teaspoons of sand into stars.
In her eyes the sun shines stubborn casting
shadows of an absent smile, the bronchitis
cough that persists, pulls at her skirts as she works
and works. Born from this sorrow
a compression explosion, broken glass
and breakfast is served.
What if
the Most Important
Poet
ever is alive
and stranded
on an undiscovered
island,
skin leathered
like roast chicken
existing on fear
and speared fish writing
the Most Brilliant
Poetry
in history
on a notebook
of sand, punctuated
by clams and erased
forever daily,
never to be read
by anyone
but her.
Hyena is as shadow stretched
speaking in his grinning way,
a million needle pointed teeth,
dripping reassuringly
‘til Rabbit’s frantic heart stops racing
fast as prey from predator.
Four grey stones pressed to her breast,
she holds them close, cradles them.
My God, she sighs through bunny lips
as sunrise creeps over the ridge,
“Thank you for Hyena’s keep.
The babies sleep as sound as Keats.”
Hand numbered, after shipping there are 31 left for purchase. They are beautful. I am in love with them.
If you ordered one already, enjoy!
If not, get yer ass in gear.
Order here. The journal, not the babies…
Every poet reads the same. Inflection
as nicotine gum droning,
stretched too long, too far
to work
anymore.
I am wise, it says.
I am seasoned.
I can see the world
for what it really is.
I am an individual but have received
my invitation
to this private
party.
MY words
have
WORTH.
My words
have
worth?
My words
HAVE
worth.
There is the girl
with heavy boots
and an oversized
necklace of bone
and shell.
There is the girl
with a ring
of black
eyeliner
and a bun
of bleached
blonde
hair.
There is the girl
with perfectly buffed
(not painted)
finger nails.
There is the boy
with an Amish beard
of pubic hair.
There is the boy
in pajamas.
There is the boy
with dreadlocks
who stinks.
You will know I was there
of course –
by now I’m certain
you see all.
But maybe you don’t know
what I was doing. I spent
a while looking
at your face. I half
expected you to speak.
I thought I
saw you blinking.
I remembered
how it feels to touch
your mouth,
the breach between
your chin and your mouth.
Sometimes
there is a tangle of yarn
that is our arguments, struggles
and fears
that winds itself
around my body
in impossible knots
until I cannot move
but I struggle
against it nonetheless.
Tonight I listened to Lola scream
at her brothers.
Fed up,
she screeched –
vocal cords grinding –
GO WAY.
GO!
WAY!
And they did, knowing
as family does,
that she did not
mean forever.
She sleeps beside me
on the couch as I sit
working at things
in which I have trouble
finding worth
while her brothers
and their friends stomp
the house. They’re laughing
as she pouts and pulls
her ‘beatsie’, a pink
blanket, closer to
her chin. I smooth
her soft curls
until she falls asleep.
I know.
I know.
I know.
There is laundry
and dishes, toys
to be tidied, toilets
to clean. I should do all this
in a sprint while she sleeps.
I know these things.
It’s a knowledge
that, over eleven years,
has become a scar in my brain.
I want to give up.
Today. I want to be saved
by someone stronger
than me.
You must sit alone,
head balanced
on your left
hand, shoulders following
the lean, pen
in your right
hand stumbling
across the pages,
scrawling script
on the black marbled mead
you purchased
because where you
are, you had to have
the black marbled mead
composition book
popular in American
movies and T.V. series.
The streets you’ve shown
me are clean,
timeless spires crowned
with brittle cell phone towers.
Alien green kiosks offer information,
beckon seductively.
Tonight she won’t have nightmares, cry
out in her sleep, tossing,
turning and sweating.
She won’t have to cling
to me.
The darkness will disappear
from beneath their eyes.
They’ll do their homework
at the kitchen table,
get to bed
on time
and wake to their favorite
cereal and cartoons.
The laundry pile
will re-disappear, the broken
dishes forgotten
and the shouting
forgiven
by them at least.
Crying in the shower
is like being
a chameleon.
I rinse it all down
the drain. Shaving cream,
hope
and shampoo.
I eat less so he’ll love me
more. He does not ask me to do this.
I read messages
people send me.
None of us ever writes
by hand. We send
little messages,
sentiments. It’s okay
because they are sincere.
We all have
inboxes
full of text, we have bank
accounts full of numbers
or not.
I owe someone a letter.
A real one.
I owe Well’s Fargo
thousands of dollars.
I go
to college to pay
for going
to college.
I eat less so he’ll love me
more. He gives me compliments.
He says he loves my ass.
When I’m lying in the bath
alone, the skin on my belly is different
than the skin everywhere else
on my body.
I’ve had four children.
He’s never smashed my head
into the car window, never beat
my eggshell skull
against glass.
He didn’t scream insults
under the suffocating
sublimity of a country sky
at night.
That wasn’t him
but he also didn’t see.
He couldn’t stop it.
He wasn’t there then.
He has only seen every inch
of my naked body.
I don’t know what to say
when he tells me
how beautiful
I am to him.
Some days I eat nothing
at all, which has nothing to do
with him. My stomach burns
and I feel hyper alive.
He loves my children.
I’m afraid he’ll discover
I don’t know what to do
with a good man.
I eat less so he’ll love me
more. He does not ask me to do this.
I once met a man in a bar
who asked me if I am famous.
I once met another man in a bar
who told me he knew
where I’d been
the night before.
He thought I should call him.
He gave me his phone number.
Some days I eat far too much
and never feel full.
He sent me gifts in the mail.
He has a mother
who likes me.
She sent me cookies.
She asked how I am feeling.
He sent me chocolate and tea
and orange split peas.
He sent me a letter
he had written by hand.
jenifer.wills 