Three Poems
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by Maia Brown-Jackson
delight and dismay so acute (erasure poetry from Sigmund Freud’s Dora: An Analysis of a Case of Hysteria, Collected Papers of Sigmund Freud)) 
Seeking: revenge There’s something living in the cage of my ribs, squeezing, wiggling, scratching, so there’s not quite room enough for heart and lungs. Sometimes it goes quiet and I wait, tightlipped, for it to awaken. I wonder what would pour from the wound if it escaped, or if I’ve gone too far from human now to bleed. Maybe my body is all that’s keeping it contained, because sometimes I think I can feel a nuclear explosion building and a piece of me wonders, Do I let it go or give it a reason to stay? Be kind to the creature in your breast, people have said. That thing beating on your bones, don’t you recognize it? Twisted, angry, frightened? Don’t blame that beast for wanting to take over when you’ve gone silent. Understand that the scar tissue lining your chest from the inside out is because you won’t listen anymore, because you tried to stifle it, to drown it in tequila and therapy. Angels make the most beautiful demons when they fall, people have said, That innocence twisted is the most exquisite pain. What did you expect would answer your call? You asked for revenge, they say. You should have been more specific. kiss him because the world is ending Torn blue foil on silk lilac sheets and tender pale skin roughed up pink and raw from dark stubble tracing square jawline and “Are you okay?” respond in confusion, in gratitude (why does he keep checking?) then “That doesn’t make me a good person.” and “There’s no rush.” And gold foil joins blue as somewhere lower than stomach embers start to glow and this is something new-- His eyes all pupil staring like magnets don’t have to turn and look away or bite lower lip to keep from making noise no saltwater dripping down cheeks inner thigh lightly rosy not dripping red no lapis lazuli handprints fading sallow and sore “that doesn’t make me a good person” goddammit, when did the bare minimum become such a blessing? knowing exactly when (and how) And kiss him, kiss him, kiss him wrists pressed into pillow of tousled hair and let it feel good because none of this will stop the world from ending. Maia Brown-Jackson is a Pushcart-nominated, award-winning writer and humanitarian. |