Poetry Issue 15

   Issue #17 : July-December 2012

Becca Jensen





      so long our roome did fill. Likewise, at the time
      of my birth there were eggs, mountains, crabgrass, titanic steel, microwaves, sensibility, points. Everything clamored together, or what Milton

      condescendingly calls, “the jingling sound of like endings”—making a mirror
      where there is none: the houses merely throwing themselves open like a kind of wild
      violet—“See! how the light falls out of us now!” Outside, my eyes plop

      through a mottled field. Outside, there is no threshold from which
      to exit: I take your hand—this is what is meant by: looking away. I take
      your hand: the cave moves steadily on with a ripening winter