Poetry by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins

           ​Boris Kasimov CC



​
SEVEN THINGS


1.

Don’t get drunk
when it’s a full moon.
Or do. What do I know?


2. 

It’s fair to say that I have struggled
to love my life—or even, at times,
like it—the heavy July days spent
under sweat-damp sheets,
heat lightning opening
the corners of the room.


3.

When you know something
will pain you terribly,
but you do it anyway, is there
a word for this?
If so, it lives in my breast pocket.


4. 

When you get down-and-out sad,
you might need to print out
a Mary Oliver poem
and eat it.
Or call your mom if you don’t have a printer.


5. 

At night I pray to the patron saint
of rest stop bathrooms
and ask him to intercede for me-
for the terrible things I’ve done.
I figure he probably doesn’t get
many prayers, so maybe
he can fit me in quick.


6. 

The idea of happiness is like the knife
I use to open my medical bills.

​
7. 

It’s wild we get this one small life
and have to live it end to end.
Wherever that is.

​


Brett Elizabeth Jenkins lives and writes in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Look for her work in The Sun, Beloit Poetry Journal, Mid-American Review, and elsewhere.