
for the sounds of ordinary things
manhandled with too much
force. Relentless, yet sporadic
thwok bumf sclitch drundun
percussion of menace and don’t
make me and your fault, always.
Not comedic like splat, not
scientific like boom, not
an accident like crash. Think
of a fat cookbook flung, it’s spine
splitting. But not your spine.
Think of a vacuum’s roar
masquerading as virtue. Something
precious to you will end
up scarred, ruined, so clean.
Who needed that neck-
lace, that cup, that mirror anyway?
But you, he needs you. With him
your bones are safe,
you think. But your heart,
your
Heather Jessen has poems appearing or forthcoming in Beloit Poetry Journal, Southern Humanities Review, Jabberwock Review, and elsewhere and is a finalist for the Charles Simic poetry prize. A former resident of Australia, she lives in Connecticut and can be sporadically found on Instagram at @maxhj1.
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