Poetry |

“Against the Wind” and “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain”

Against the Wind

 

All horses & homeless folk

go to the beach

when fires rip through California canyons. They run

through surf — against the wind,

away from the flame of the night.

When the choke smoke dies,

they canter home

 

to campfire stones,

tent poles,

push carts, hoof brush wire, salt

block racks, & spoons.

The flats of certain spatulas.

 

Not everything unnatural is gone.

 

In the fortified Getty Museum, Saint Martin

Dividing His Cloak with a Beggar,

The “Piebald” Horse, & Van Gogh’s

Irises are safe

 

too. Sometimes, I feel less than

 

a work of art. Like a horse awash

in a wave not a blaze. Like I’m home-free

when the ash is thick

on ground I’ve slept on for months.

 

Sometimes, I wait for miles of asters,

blue dicks, & desert

pincushions — for an after fire

superbloom — to feel

useful. Created. Though, I know

that’s as unwise as a California breeze

after a decade of drought.

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain

Redondo Beach

 

In some daydreams I know my dad

enough to commit him to the VA

or to a converted storage container

spruced for aging veterans by kindly,

enterprising undergrads.

 

I can see it now — move-in day!

 

Sometimes he dies long before commitment:

the Budget Inn guy calls, barks heart attack info,

asks for three month’s back rent,

& I fly in from out East. Sometimes

my eyes glisten.

 

&, though my faith does not allow cremation,

in these dreams I zap him to ash.

Hold a beachside ceremony. All of IHOP attends —

every breakfast acquaintance.

Salt in their hair. Folded hands. Maroon polyester

 

abandoned for black business casual.

 

All his former haunts —

all of Denny’s, all of Chick Fil-A, & some of Budget Inn —

blend in too. Watch me sprinkle him

on the Pacific, like nothing doing. Like dashed hopes 

& best intentions. Like smog on skyscrapers.

 

Like it’s easier

than real life — when I’ll really deal

with his odd body, his final hairstyle,

his undergarments, the set of his jaw. With the plot &

the formalization of

 

our relationship.

Contributor
Jennifer Jean

Jennifer Jean was born in Venice, California, and lived in foster-care until she was seven. Her ancestors are from the Cape Verde Islands. Her poetry collections include Object Lesson (Lily Books) and The Fool (Big Table). She has also released the teaching resource Object Lesson: a Guide to Writing Poetry (Lily Books). She has been awarded a Peter Taylor Fellowship from the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, a Disquiet FLAD Fellowship from Dzanc Books, and an Ambassador for Peace Award from the Women’s Federation for World Peace. She is the translations editor for Talking Writing, a consulting editor at the Kenyon Review, a co-translator of Arabic poetry and organizer for the Her Story Is collective, and the founder of Free2Write Poetry Workshops for Trauma Survivors. Jennifer is the new Manager of 24PearlStreet, the Fine Arts Work Center’s Online Writing Program.

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