When I reach for a thing

And my hand hits the mirror 

I gotta remember the object’s closer

Than it appears

There’s something here

I feel it between us

I’ve seen it in your eyes

Maybe I’m

Closer than I ought to be

But there’s a part of me

Dancing in your fire

Dance with me

Can’t you see

A part of you

Dancing here with me

They tell me at school to be sweeet

And how I oughta be

If I want to get someone to like me

That I’m a part of a civilized tribe

But there’s a part of me

That wants to build a fire

And then hold their feet to it

Pull their toenails out by the root

Eradicate them from my mind

For not liking me the way I am 

For telling me how sweet I oughta be

When I look at myself in the mirror 

I see the war

I see it clearer than the letters in their books

And the dirty looks I get when I’m not

What they call sweet

I’ve got your picture tucked into the frame of my mirror

The regal headdress

The savage seriousness

On your face

I brush my hair

Maybe I’m

Closer than I ought to be

But there’s a part of me

Dancing in your fire

And there’s a part of you

Dancing here with me

-jenn

She has a blue collar way of putting on lipstick,

Shading it with her hand 

Laid over the top to hide it,

Like a blue collar way

Of smoking a cigarette.

She has a blue collar approach 

To picking up men in bars.

She brings her metal lunchbox in

And opens her thermos,

Pours herself a cup of joe

While she waits for her

Union sanctioned break to be over. 

Then it’s back to coke and Jack Daniels 

And finding herself a nice

Blue collar lover to cuss with.

-jenn

I’m writing this one just for you.

I hope you see through my vain attempts

To get you to like me.

What I want is that you don’t,

So I won’t be disappointed 

When you get to know me,

And retreat like glacier patterns

On boulders toward the poles.

I’m magnetized by granite blocks,

And quartz transmitters in my heart

Continue to emit.

Even though my phone alerts me

To the fact that the message has no subject,

I continue to “send anyway?”

And there is a lovely message in here,

If you read between the lines.

I’ve encoded valentines and candy hearts

To tickle your fancy,

If you can see me beyond

The rote transmission I’m required to send,

And there beneath it all, the unrequited love.

-jenn

I finally wore out my Miles Davis album 

And had to find another one.

This one has even more songs,

But my favorite ones come in a rearranged order.

I forget I’m listening,

Then the bottom drops out of my heart like grief,

As if, by ice dropping into a glass,

Or at the first hearing of the familiar piano,

I might see a love I used to know.

Then I remember everything, 

About my life,

And even things I never knew

About Miles...

Like how he grew up in East St.Louis,

In a day, when most black Americans We’re barely paid, still almost considered slaves.

His dad was an oral surgeon, and they had money,

But it didn’t afford them the luxury

Of escaping family tradition.

The irony of his dad’s attacks against his mother

Was one, in particular, in which 

He knocked all her front teeth completely out,

And she had to find another oral surgeon 

In town to help her.

His parents pushed him to attend the Juliard  School of music,

Wanting to influence him classically,

But he took up with the trumpet,

And made his debut in jazz and blues,

For what else is there?

I pull the plug on the bathtub before I’m through,

And hurry to scrub my dirty feet

Before the rest of the water drains.

This way I’m dry as I emerge,

And I don’t have time to give in to the urge to cry.

Now, I’m steeled for the day,

In case happiness try and sway me

To some more classical way to be,

By one strong shot of half-ass Juliard,

And a pint of finely aged “So What?”

-jenn 

I know we’re too tall to get married under this tree,

But at least come sleep with me under it.

Who knows what effect the moon may have.

Sometimes it’s so bright that

Mimosas bloom at night,

And who could tell with the smell

Of wisteria so heavy in the lightened air.

Some say there is a stairway to heaven,

But others say the Psyche is a butterfly 

With her own wings, and doesn’t need

Contraptions of any kind to find her way

To any place she truly longs to be.

And I know we’re too tall to get married under this tree.

But, at least, come sleep with me, under it.

-jenn

I’m in some very busy attire,

My pants on fire,

‘Cause I just lied to my mama.

“Where ya goin’?”

“You don’t wanna know,”

Is what I should’ve said.

That’d be true,

But I told her something acceptable 

As I flounced out the door.

But will two wrongs make a right,

When I come in, later tonight,

And she asks me how I am?

I’ll lie again, and tell her I’m alright.

Will two lies make it true?

Who knows, but at least

I won’t hear her say,

“I told you so,” again.

-jenn

They arrested her because she owed

Back child support,

Took her out of a shack in South Caroline.

They cleared the house,

Her granny and four grown men up in there,

Along with her twin sister, as skin and bone as she was.

Her hair hung down long

Below her hips,

Her jeans barely hung on to her

As the officer searched them.

A pocket knife on a heavy chain

And one nickel

Was all the officer found, and a cigarette,

Which she smoked on the way

To the back of the cop car.

And we’d all like to tell ourselves,

That a study between these twins,

Not separated at birth,

But re-environmented by this fork in their divergent trails,

Will show the incarcerated one

To emerge, as better off,

With her GED,

Her long hair doffed and coiffed, 

And styled and taught 

To dress like a lady,

And to talk like one ready for an interview 

As a bank teller

Or some other respectable profession.

But nevertheless,

Whether it’s the bank branch manager

Or the pimp on the street

Callin’ the shots and takin a cut,

At least this gal had someone

She could tell to go get her shoes and socks

And to put ‘em on her feet

Before she went to jail,

But after she got out,

Not so much, and 

She’s still gonna owe that child support.

-jenn