Welcoming poet J.J. STARR to our pages.
- Second Departure
- I see a woman
- My hurt for your missing is filed soft with a few smokes
I am, he said, and the multitudes fell back
Shapely spirit makes a sport of modifying bodies
As for our home, dog shit covered the carpets
She was my object, I could have held her like a stone
Kicked out or fled, who knows, she left for California
Made prodigal, her returning two months later
Two suitcases, a car & my brother, all else gone
Figurines, the dress from the wedding, the notebooks
Yes, it was just me & she comes back from the beginning
Dogs ran off, she said
The cats missing
Before the pets ran off
The ferret died
She kept love birds, gold and green, a cup of seeds
She made place in the chat rooms, her portal on a shelf
The healed tongue still holds under it a poison of asps
Seeking other poisons, my brother lit her hair on fire
An accident we all said, short after, the furniture changed
She met a man who wanted her & she wanted to leave
Sent the taxi to my father’s house, I didn’t go
I said there are no multitudes, just infinities of one body
I said I AM & made nothing from it but a shining coin
I see a woman
who looks like you and it makes me
stop. You’re not even dead
yet but sometimes it feels that way.
I’m sad about it, I am. It’s not something I put on my wish list.
I want to disappear when I see a man
with the right kind of mustache.
I know you know what I mean, the things that pull us back
—back again to the rooms and the smell of them.
You’re so far away from me. I don’t just mean I haven’t seen you.
Why shouldn’t we have formed a family without you? Don’t
we all need one?
My hurt for your missing is filed soft with a few smokes
Pulling it in &—exhale exhale
In my mind I see the bags deflated, squeezing from the bottom up.
I see you as you once were to me, my heart a little stone pumping cold into the night.
My heart is filled with longing for the earth
to be healthy again & this helps me forget
People carry holiday gift bags, though
January is halfway through.
Funny what will linger, hanging
about the wrist, sparkling
as if it’s still new.
Earth not filled with water, the saying thing spake it & it was
Pulpitted with his receding head & the tall body under oak
His robes dirty white, sage sash, he makes an altar song
Fine hands of gold, broken wafers, the challis with a napkin
Knelt at the round part, our many bodies & swords of teeth
The altar children we are & so we had the verses given
& wished lines to our bodies, which drew water & signified
Me in the robe, white dress under & then a white girl
I made blood already & I wanted people to know what I am
His anger turned away
Fortress, god my solitude
J.J. Starr is a poet and writer based in Amherst, MA. She attended the New York University Creative Writing Program where she was a Veterans Writing Workshop Fellow. She has received support from Wesleyan University and the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. Her work can also be found in Drunken Boat, The Shallow Ends, Juked, and The Journal among others.