Showing posts with label Jennifer Saunders. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jennifer Saunders. Show all posts

Monday, December 10, 2018

Measured in Minutes

By Jennifer Saunders 

I read it, and I saw a drunken sexual assault that probably was measured in minutes by two creeps with no premeditation. — Tom Nichols (@RadioFreeTom) on Twitter 9/17/18 1:28 AM, responding to attempted rape allegations against Brett Kavanaugh.

Cover (one Mississippi) your (two Mississippi) mouth. 
Smash (three Mississippi) that (four Mississippi) palm (five Mississippi) 
good and hard (six Mississippi) 
against (seven Mississippi) your lips. 
Find a body (eight Mississippi) bigger (nine Mississippi) than (ten Mississippi) yours 
(eleven Mississippi)
and push (twelve Mississippi) (thirteen Mississippi) (fourteen Mississippi) yourself 
                        (fifteen Mississippi) down 
                                    (sixteen Mississippi) on 
                                                (seventeen Mississippi) the bed 
and turn (eighteen Mississippi) up (nineteen Mississippi) the (twenty Mississippi) music 
                                                            (twenty-one Mississippi) (twenty-two Mississippi) 

louder. 
Cover (twenty-three Mississippi) 
that (twenty-four Mississippi) 
mouth (twenty-five Mississippi). 

Push (twenty-five Mississippi) harder (twenty-six Mississippi). 
Now tear (twenty-seven Mississippi) at (twenty-eight Mississippi) your (twenty-nine Mississippi) clothes. 

(Thirty Mississippi)

Never (thirty-one Mississippi)             forget   (thirty-two Mississippi) 
there (thirty-three Mississippi) are (thirty-four Mississippi) two (thirty-five Mississippi) of (thirty-six Mississippi) them (thirty-seven Mississippi) 

twoofthemtwoofthemtwoofthemtwoofthem               in         the       room    with     you.

(Thirty-eight Mississippi). 

(Thirty-nine Mississippi). 

(Forty Mississippi).

Try (forty-one Mississippi) to (forty-two Mississippi) yell (forty-three Mississippi)
for (forty-four Mississippi) 
                        help. 
                                    Go on. 
Push (forty-five Mississippi) that (forty-six Mississippi) hand (forty-seven Mississippi) down (forty-eight Mississippi) hard (forty-nine Mississippi). 
Yank (fifty Mississippi) 
            at (fifty-one Mississippi) 
                        your (fifty-two Mississippi) 
                                    clothes (fifty-three Mississippi). 

Push (fifty-four Mississippi).
                                                            Yank (fifty-five Mississippi).
Push (fifty-six Mississippi).
                                                            Yank (fifty-seven Mississippi).
                                    
Can (fifty-eight Mississippi) you (fifty-nine Mississippi) still (sixty Mississippi) breathe? 

Good. 
That’s one. 
Now. 
Begin (one Mississippi)                      again.




This poem was first published in Glass: A Journal of Poetry in September 2018 and reprinted by permission of the author.  Jennifer Saunders is a poet currently living in German-speaking Switzerland. Her poetry and reviews have appeared or are forthcoming in Dunes Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, San Pedro River Review, Spillway, The Shallow Ends, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Self-Portrait with Housewife, was selected by Gail Wronsky as the winner of the 2017 Clockwise Chapbook contest and is forthcoming from Tebot Bach Press. Jennifer holds an MFA from Pacific University and in the winters she teaches skating at a hockey school.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

The Expat Offers Some Packing Advice

By Jennifer Saunders

You will never be finished.
You will never be finished
because you don’t even know what you’ll need.
You can’t guess what you will miss
until you are missing it like a limb.
So don’t stand there in your living room
surrounded by love letters and text books,
agonizing over what to pack.
You will always pack too much
and too little.

(Look up.
It is the view from that window you will miss,
the ragged pine tree
and the squirrel you lured to your sill
with peanut butter crackers—
but you can’t possibly know that now
so I am telling you:
that view is what you will miss.)

You will pack all the wrong things
and some of the right ones.
You could fill a shipping container,
and you will,
and still you will discard
the thing you should have held
and hold the thing that weighs you down.

And you could stand on the threshold
of your empty apartment all afternoon
watching a square of light
travel across the hardwood floor,
unable to shut the door behind you
because you know you are forgetting
something
but you can’t think what it is
and still it will never come to you.
It will never come to you
because you can’t know what you will miss
until you are missing it.
So learn this now:
you will miss all of it.

It is time to close the door.


Previously published in Blast Furnace, Volume 1, Issue 2

Thursday, July 29, 2010

The Things You Know By Heart

By Jennifer Saunders

The things you know by heart - which are the things
you'd thought you'd forgotten - come to you one
night. Your father's hand that you could rarely hold,
calloused by the crutches he used your whole life.
The smell of his coffee ready for the thermos. The
whistle on the red cord he kept for hockey practice.
The way the boys accepted a coach who could not
skate and the way he expected them to wear coat
and tie on game nights. The way they always did.

These things come to you and at first you think that
you are dreaming. The bend in the river where your
father cast his line. His fly-rods lined up like
lodgepole pines. The Bowie knife in its leather casing
stained by fish-guts and sweat. The way he pinched
back the barbs on his hooks and the way he slid a
trout back into the water. The way it darted for the
river grasses on the far bank.

These things come to you in the still night. Your
father's bed in the living room when he could no
longer climb the stairs. The crutches laid to rest
against the headboard as if they might still be
needed. His tea, cold in the cup. The way you taught
him about cycling during late-night coverage of the
Tour de France when neither of you could sleep. The
way he looked when he began to understand what a
cyclist you'd become, and the way he knew you would
race on without him. The way you did.

These things come to you in the dark. The scent of
lilacs when your mother woke you that Sunday. The
slant of light on the hardwood floor. The
quiet. The way you thought you should already have known. The
way you called your friend to say you wouldn't be
playing softball that afternoon and the way she
understood what that meant. The way you've never
played softball since.

The things you know by heart – which are the things
you'd thought you'd forgotten – come to you one
night. The way your small son dimples high on his left
cheek when he laughs, just like your father did. The
way you taught him to skate by holding his hands and
gliding backwards before him the way your father
could not teach you. The way you brought him to the
bend in the river and the way he threw rocks in the
riffles when he got there. The way you let him. The
way he is growing already so tall, the way he will
grow taller still, and all the things he already knows
by heart come to you one night. You turn and drift
back to sleep, wrapped in the eiderdown of the things
you'd thought you'd forgotten.


Previously published in BluePrint Review, Issue #19