And in Anticipation
Rabbit burrows deeper
into the nest: well-
prepared (always has been
has always had
to be
taught from a young age
since the violence of lawnmower blades
overhead in infancy teaches anyone
that if you want to survive
you dig in)
protected as she is among all
the hair-thin roots of wet grass under
weighted snow blankets above
she still freezes when she sees
Fox’s snout following her,
inside.
Orion A
Tonight
the moon looks like the outside skin of a grapefruit
halved, cut perfect by the sky and
I am driving home safe
and you are not here.
It used to be comforting to think we were at least
under the same moon
but the sun hasn’t set yet for you, and when
it does who knows. If it
will even look like a grapefruit
anymore, and besides we’re only
under the same moon so long as we’re on the same planet
and that ship has sailed ages ago.
On nights like this I call you
cellular service too liminal, more so
than landlines and your voice from three thousand miles
under a sea on some other world,
still day while I thrash around in the dark.
Make out your form in the shape of some stars,
try dismissing it when you call back
and long for something less acidic than that.
Anniversary
Listen you don’t have to throw it all away
but god doesn’t it feel good
to sweep almost everything off the dresser
off the desk
out of the closets out from under the bed
from the medicine cabinets the pantry the
space under the kitchen sink
into the shopping bags from the grocery store
(don’t even waste
the trash bags you spent money on no
get rid of the things to “reduce reuse recycle” into
some landfill somewhere not here not
your problem anymore)
to vacuum it all into multiple filters
empty empty empty again again again
wipe down the surfaces clear of the soot
the dust the dead skin cells desiccated the old leaves
of the begonia which puts them out even faster
than it drops them on the window sill
mop the ceilings scrub the surfaces with one of those
Mr. Clean Magic Erasers to remove every single
impression of what was there (you know it’s basically
a scourging pad right you know it’s just
lifting the surface on such a level that we
can’t see it but we know when we touch it and see
the white on our fingerprint but)
doesn’t it feel so good to just
dump it all
and at the end have the one single three-wick candle you
bought on sale in the fit of
whatever your brain has been doing
an attempt to clean
sitting on the vanity table with the few things you’ve kept
mementos of the dead
prayer cards from funerals, a set of rosary beads
flowers from the supermarket
Clorox mingling with “white tea & sage” and
the men next door hammering new siding against Tyvek HomeWrap
sky same color as the snow on the ground one unending duvet
and doesn’t it feel so good
to know that soon
the begonia might even spring some flowers on you
when this is all over?
Greenville at 10:17PM
In one life I think we
must have been Texan Toads:
Electric Green and spotted, with immense
white bellies and big crimson mouths
which would open while we whispered
long croaks against each other’s necks
underneath the outdoor bar lights.
Not quite drunk but buzzed by
catching tequila-soaked flies on a
slow, warm, Sunday night,
swaying
our froggy bodies
forever.
JILLIAN BOGER is a writer, scholar, and educator working in Providence, R.I. Her work has most recently appeared in The Worcester Review.