"Playing Poker for Lost Souls OR Sitting Across from Your Therapist" by Jen Rouse
You call me an insensitive asshole. I panic. What haven’t I noticed? I’m not well. It’s not my fault. There are no cards. You tell me you don’t know how to play, and, yet, you’re winning. I make you anxious. I see you sneak a perfectly-postured singer’s breath. I’ll see your hurt little girl and raise you a 45-year-old suicide. Go big or go home. Do you want to go home? you sneer. I am clearly wasting your time. And then I’m looking for you everywhere. Running down subway platforms, through thick-bodied trees in a Minnesota forest, so many arms not yours. There is something, so certain there is something, I must say. Your voice echoes in the emptiness: What do you want to tell me? I know if I could just speak the right words you would be happy with me. Happy people, you say, try harder.
"For Soft and Historic Moments" by Jen Rouse
As a hummingbird
I have been noble,
earthless, bathed
in endless summer
and pools of sugar.
I have hummed
all of my best songs
for you. And I don't
sing, so this has taken
great effort. For
soft and historic
moments, these wings
have grazed your cheeks,
rocked into your breath.
I know your powdery
scent and smoky
laughter. I wouldn't
change us. But we
will not return the
same next season.
You have watched
me through all the displays
of darkness and light.
And you have given me
shelter, nests of
threaded fingers.
Because when no one notices
something ceases to exist,
we were merely small
dancers in the midst.
Together.