Tag Archives: fear
It’s Like This, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
It’s Like This
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
I stand here. The monster
Stands there—in front of me
Mirroring my every move.
Separating us is a glass wall
Whisper thick and strong as hope.
Some days I barely think
Of the monster, yet I know it’s there–
I see it, out of the corner of my eye,
Doing everything I do.
There are days it pounds on the glass—
Howling, pacing, and somehow
Growing. Every morning
I reinforce the wall, look at the monster,
And stare it down.
Lately, I notice spiderwebbing cracks blooming
Over the wall. The monster presses
The glass, testing its solidity, smiling.
I assume it will hold. I assume it is
Strong enough. And then I blink and the monster’s hand
Passes through the wall as if it isn’t there.
I blink again and the monster is back
On the other side of the wall, blocked
From reaching me, or, at least, I assume.
Going about my life, dependent
On a wall whisper thick and strong as hope
Makes me feel, at times, like a sham, like
If it wasn’t for the wall the monster would be
All there is, like I am not as truly well
As I think I am.
The wall will not last forever,
The wall may need to be adjusted
In strength, and still I fear it will not last
Forever.
And all the while the monster
Grows, waiting, watching, studying what I do.
If the wall finally gives way,
The monster will take hold of me, toss me to where
It once stood, build a wall of its own,
Scream-thick and strong as hell,
And it will go into my life, smiling,
Leaving me behind and to do everything
It does, but in slow motion, all the while I am turning
Into a memory of light snuffed out
By the dark.
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Murmurations, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
Murmurations
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
The flock of starlings rises, like a black dot-to-dot,
Lifting from the page, into the air, where it swirls–writhing, like
A confused river tossing and turning—back and forth,
Dizzying the threat of the falcon.
As suddenly as it began it starts to dissolve, each starling
Finding its place on the powerlines and trees, where they breathe
Little sighs of feather-settling relief.
As I sit in my car from the side of the road where I pulled over to watch,
A panic surges within my chest and it seems to me
There is no other way than the lifting of all things—
Moments, friends, kisses, ways of walking and singing—
All things releasing themselves into the unconscious sky,
As if time were shaking off the sheets of the memory.
Suddenly as it began, the panic disperses, my fears
Finding their places coursing through the hollow bones of a faith
That carries me inexplicably over the hillsides and valleys, where death–
That falcon who notices all things–will only fall back
For so long, and yet what I love gathers on higher branches
And upon the lines of the staff of the song the goddess sings
Forming a universe filled with galaxies giving birth to starlings
That, in turn, give birth to entire flocks of revelation—
Wings and hearts swirling into the form of shared communities of hope.
My Nest Was Built With Little Bones, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
My Nest Was Built With Little Bones
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
My nest was built with little bones,
Shells, feathers, twigs, candy wrappers,
Shiny things, torn pages of catechisms, shabads,
And pornographic magazines,
It was made of moss and hair, abandoned ribbons,
Scraps of red bandannas, silken scarves,
Shopping lists, and spit.
For years I incubated beneath the hollow-boned lark,
Or was it a mockingbird?
My shell survived storms
And long stretches where only monsters,
Drunken owls, and sleepy seagulls smothered me
In the night. I learned to hide myself—
A nest within a nest—an egg within an egg;
I lived tucking parts of me away
I never wanted. Brooding memories
Filled the nest like bits of worms regurgitated,
And every now and again I caught a glimpse of a faraway blue sky.
When the egg hatched and the nest
Bloomed, I stared blindly into myself,
Wiggling stubs of wings I so wanted covered with feathers and flight.
Yet now, I live, I walk, a nest on legs, a human egg, a permanent fledgling—
Wings clipped, song raspy with rain and darkness,
And a road of eggshells spreading out before me wherever I go.
12 / 13 / 14
12 / 13 / 14
by
Joseph Anthony
12 / 13 / 14
The tissue paper wing of the dead cicada,
The dry, decomposing leaf that reveals the hair-thin frame,
The tailspinning snowflake landing on my coat,
The seedling finally threading through the ruckusy goings on of the thick forest floor,
The hatchling robins shaking, blind, void of feathers, hungry,
The surface of the pond as I just lay my hand, like so, upon its face,
My hand as the cool water enfolds it with the darkness of sensation,
The small Christmas present, all crinkles and tape, loosely and lovingly wrapped by a child,
The quavering moon held in the fingertips of the winter branches,
The trembling hand adding the last, tiniest detail to the drawing,
The onion skin paper between the pages of the prayer book from the 1800’s,
This heart, this mind, this fluttering soul,
How does one allow for such vulnerable tenderness?
How does one be in the presence of such beautiful, holy fragility
Without feeling the impulse to crush?
How, dear Lord of sparrows and lilies,
Does one protect such delicate things?