Tag: Jessica Armstrong

Troubled Dogs

will we have time for our hands

to roam wherever they need?

along night air and balcony railings,

damp noses sniffing the air for intruders,

mayflies whispering against the knuckle of your 

ring finger for three quarters

of a second


we remember the freedom of being strays,

how loneliness stays as ticks and fleas.

we can’t outrun good intentions.

someone is always a phone call

away from what they call 

our salvation


if i had an insect’s body 

i would whisper with my wings 

like a dog whistle that only you can hear,

telling you we have to leave this place.

but as it is, we fill these canine back 

alley corners better than anyone else


we are dogs feeding                              

from the same bowl. you growl,

i whine. our teeth are our defense.

if we are chained, we will be loud about it. 

snapping teeth. bristled backs. we have

no other options


we want to be found. we don’t want

to be found. if chains are gone 

then we will have the memory of chains.

if hands are the reason for chains,

we will break hands

and remember them as fists


we stand in the rain

of our own frightened smell,

keys rumbling in our bellies.

troubled dogs will always belong 

to their original masters.

Metaphor for Lilies (Covid 19)

if it wasn’t for the old ones,

we’d be dancing through this sickness

with zinfandel wine and stacks

of rice, beans, coffee, milk,

all the necessities to survive

isolation


while making a cup of coffee i wonder

if our grandmothers will die before we are able

to buy them any more flowers.

every Easter my mother gives Grandmama

white lilies, which could represent doves, signs

of salvation, or any kind of metaphorical bullshit.

i’ll add my own metaphor: my grandmother’s face,

planted in soil. three lily faces are sleeping

inside a plastic pot


first face: she stands in blue skirt and white blouse,

brown curls gripping cheeks younger

than mine are now. did the photographer

add that pink blush to her cheeks?

does she know what is coming?


second face: she stands against the background

of dark kitchen cabinets, wearing the same kind

of white blouse but her hair isn’t brown anymore,

graying against the whole-body fever

blush of her skin in middle age.

can she feel the sickness creeping closer?


third face: she wears a pink jacket over the white blouse

and holds a birthday present, peering past pale tissue paper

because she can’t remember that she already

opened this one, so she will reopen

the truth of the future and keep

forgetting it


I wonder if she knows

that we have kept away because we love–

isn’t that the way it goes? we keep away

from what we love to keep it safe?


I bought an orchid and watched it slowly wither,

turning black, first the flowers, then the leaves,

as it sputtered dead on the kitchen stove


I’ll go to the edge

of my grandmother’s driveway, waiting

until it’s safe to see the lilies again, withered,

but still hanging on, reaching

their petals toward my waiting body

from behind the screen door,

that lonely picture frame

Honey Queen

it tasted like a bee hum in the mouth
brush of silk wings against tongue
stinger embedded in cheek lining.
that’s what happened when i swallowed
something that didn’t belong anymore
to my gluttonous stomach
the residual honey clinging to my teeth
a sour-sweet reminder of the sphere
where i was queen

Elanor’s Photosynthesis

if, from a lightning bug light
you could summon from the sun
enough energy to pass through
these dusk shadowed days
no need would wither
your green silk
or hasten you to unfold
your compact buds
to bask in a lamp orb
or balance on the bow of a bent beam
of fluorescent flicker.
but since energy
can only be caught
from an unpolluted sun
cracked window blinds
are your truest friend
and the pale puff
from your bereaved breath
(if you had a way to breath)
on the sun tinted glass
would mark the only sign
of life within your wilted leaves.

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN