Jessica Farrell

July 2012 | back-issues, poetry

Victory

Couldn’t see.

Couldn’t move.

Paraplegic.

She kissed my body,

my clothes removed themselves,

he hummed “Crooked Teeth” while I cried silently

like I was at my own funeral,

wondering what I could have been,

how much time this was going to take.

She was going to be a writer, my mother would

hyperventilate, being the DJ to my death disco.

She was such a good girl, my dad would say,

not knowing that good

daughters don’t have threesomes.

I didn’t put up much of a fight,

just a few slurred Don’ts’, but don’t doesn’t mean won’t.

And I did, I really did.

I let them have their way with me like I was Thanksgiving dinner,

sweating turkey, panting gravy,

something that everyone could have a piece of.

I stared at the ceiling, 347 stars on one tile.

I couldn’t get my dad’s voice out of my head.

She was such a good girl.

I was such a good girl,

I am a good girl.

Jawed Decay

The happy days ended for you with your diagnosis

or maybe they ended years ago when your trailer

in St. Augustine burnt down,

when you had a kid and got married,

or when you started chewing the tobacco

that fast tracked you into chemo.

Remember how you pushed me into an ant hill

and my brother had to kick your ass?

You came over with purple eyes apologizing

for the bites,

bites that resembled the beginning stages

of the cancer spreading through your jaw.

If I had known then about your disease

I would have warned against using your jaw so much.

You could’ve saved it for more meaningful

conversations between you and your wife,

you and your baby daughter.

The happy days ended when you went

to the trusted family doctor who said you were fine,

he said there was nothing wrong with your jaw,

didn’t caution you to stop chewing

or quit smoking,

to go home instead of drive back to work,

or tell you that cancer is the leading killer of Americans

next to heart disease and stroke.

You carried on like any normal hypochondriac

for months before there was clearly something wrong

then you died in a hospital watching Happy Days,

wondering if you could have prevented this years ago

when you pushed me into that ant hill,

when you learned what sarcasm was,

when you started chewing.

by Jessica Farrell

two drink minimum

July 2012 | back-issues, poetry

Today,

I realized

everything I do is a joke

and God is on stage

doing stand-up

waging his finger at me

laughing

uncontrollably

while everyone in the audience

is relieved

he isn’t pointing his stubby fat fingers

at them.

by Kari Hawkey

Our Son Cries

July 2012 | back-issues, poetry

your heart is a cracked accordion filling fast with salt – Patrick Rosal

My ex-wife called to tell me this.

Well, not exactly this. She called for money

I’d already paid. As an aside, in passing,

she added this: Our son cries.

He holds his face in his hands and sobs.

He stops by for food, cleansing, a couch

for sleeping on. He talks to himself.

He scratched the name “Jesus”

into his chest, says he’s fighting

the devil. He asked if he was adopted,

says Bob Marley is playing games

with his mind. His prescription

bottle’s full; he says the doctor is stupid.

Our son cries, she tells me in passing

after asking for money I’d already paid.

She cries, says she prays for magic.

I do not cry right there in front of her,

on the phone. Instead, I blink hard

and blink hard again.

by Danny Earl Simmons

Danny Earl Simmons is an Oregonian and a proud graduate of Corvallis High School. He has loved living in the Mid-Willamette Valley for over 30 years. He is a friend of the Linn-Benton Community College Poetry Club and an active member of Albany Civic Theater. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming in various journals such as Avatar Review, Summerset Review, The Smoking Poet, Toe Good Poetry, Pirene’s Fountain, and Burning Word. His published poems can be found at www.dannyearlsimmons.blogspot.com.