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In English Words Don’t Exist


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 JournalSouthern Humanities ReviewJabberwock 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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J Journal

Department of English

John Jay College of Criminal Justice

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New York, NY. 10019.

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