by Jen Hunt
I'm not a detail person
or so I like to say
my memory will, at times,
tiptoe--or sprint-- away
But, boy, do I remember
the 857 miles we drove in one day
when my brother
disinvited us to his sixtieth birthday
and we had nowhere else to stay
I'm not a detail person,
Or so I like to say,
But when it comes to tracking wrongs
my mind's as clear as day.
The heavens a chandelier crystal swaying just above my head
The play room is now
Art gallery, prayer loft, tomb, and bed--
I find the porch
in bathrobe and peony pajamas
and await the sunrise--
"He is risen" I write on the slate
The week is bright;
I shall wear white--
The church bells ring and gong
The swallows are in on the song
The air is thin--
Pink clouds reflect on the window pane
Jesus is finally out of trouble
I blow bubbles--
Prompt:
Nothing of my life
is what I thought my life would be, draft no. 1
Nothing in my life
Is what I thought it would be
The trail
The company
The residue
Uninvited
Nothing in my life
Is what I thought it would be
Yet there is room
For a couch and a footrest pillow
And throw in this eave
“Nothing” is quite comfortable
Once you’ve gotten
The hang of it
Loosened the belt
And traded work boots for mules
And splayed whisps of hair
--
Prompt: Let…Let…let..draft no. 1
Let the name of the Lord
Be praised
Let the hearts of all souls
Hear the refrain
Let no one be left out
Let every knee bow and even severed tongues
Rejoice
God is here before us
And he is good.
A new song shall be sung
In the neighborhood.
--
Let no one douse my flame
Let my heartbeat speak the same
Let broken bones rejoice
I have a voice
Let locust-scorched land thrive
Let sad bones come alive
Let no one steal my core
Hear me roar.
---
Prompt: For ____, I forgive you, draft no. 1
For Facebook scrolling while
The client was talking
For making the lamp of the body
A Google lens
Rather than a homing pigeon
For filling the last rays of day
With fleeting gasps and grasps
For only half listening to my friend
Talk of her illness
While I waited for someone’s autograph
For going to bed early
I forgive you
For picking your thumb scab
Until it bleeds
For failing to notice the
Tint on the side of the neighbor’s house...
I forgive
---
the stretch toward
that which hasn't been
ball of the foot
the balance on one leg
reaching ballet-like
to the horizon
the hip joints no longer supple
the plie now incomplete
all pain is made of longing
the stretch forward seeking
the limberness of childhood
all pain is made of memory
what was lost
what used to be
soon we must stretch arms or
lie down prostrate on the plain
together we eat this earth