Where There’s Fire // by Jennifer Patino
The room could be burning and I’d
hardly notice. I’m glued to shocking
news and a murky vision view
clouding how I want to feel.
It’s raining advice and soon everyone’s
voice blends together. The caring chorus
becomes a repetitive tornado. A cyclone
that picks me up then tosses me among
thorns or jagged rock. After electrical
storms, I am covered in bruises. Beaten.
I smell smoke but I’m so used to skin
singeing that it mixes with my own
smoldering offering. It is a sacred
fragrance. The smell of medicine.
The mouth watering hunger for the
end of suffering that at times can
feel so close. Can fire destroy fire?
By the looks of things, I may find out.
Like Mine // by Jennifer Patino
on bare legs
Observing healing bruises
dry, change hue,
& fade with time
Press the violet stars
kissed by blue tinged dirt
they no longer hurt;
Amethyst buds shine
on fragile doll skin,
“Anne, I Understand” // by Jennifer Patino
for Anne Sexton
It’s one of those things. We all go through them.
Our little sufferings. We all have our own
How many children did you bring? Up-swing.
How was your upbringing? Womanhood
is synonymous with duty.
Oh, I absolutely wanted you here. You complete
the room. Wear green. Blue. No black. No doom
or gloom. And where’s your other better half? Your groom?
They asked me these questions in a different time. They
asked me them on a different day. You changed it all for us.
You showed us suppressed females another way.
You made us see right through them. Their transparency.
You wouldn’t let them hide. You ripped rubber gloves off.
Dug right in. Your voice etched onto vinyl records is now therapy.
Thank you. For the attitude. Thank you. For acknowledgment
of every shade of moon and mood. Thank you for peach lipstick,
and jealousy, and pyrotechnic poems, and accusing eyes.
I imagine it was hard at the end. Harder still in the moments
you were sure it was the end and it wasn’t. You kept pounding along
on a typewriter, on a wooden door, dry skin cracking in winter, bloody knuckled.
I can imagine a smoke filled room with you. You are the smoke. You
blend into the wallpaper because our host says it’s vintage. You make
jokes and I’m your ventriloquist’s dummy speaking in your voice.
I have no choice. You felt that too. You over explained yourself. The worst
and best and gross and beautiful parts of yourself. Your books line the shelf
in the hospital, where I’m surprised you’re not banned. “Anne, I understand.”
Moon Mood // by Jennifer Patino
The moon & circumstances muddling my mind. I am not okay. A sliver of love left. I’ll keep it embedded. I’ll let it dissolve.
Love of poetry, love for my husband, love for my Creator I’m convinced is mad at me, love for every letter I can write, love for 90s indie films & dead philosophers.
None of it will save me. But this is me.
Passion & pain, perhaps one & the same. For me.
Lacrimosa. Trembling. Screaming.
At the end of the damp & withered thread. At the end of the last hair on my head.
Hush now, let me be. Come too close & I’ll drown you, unknowingly.
I am a roaring, toxic sea.