Boris Kasimov CC
Don’t get drunk
when it’s a full moon.
Or do. What do I know?
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.
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.
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.
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.
The idea of happiness is like the knife
I use to open my medical bills.
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.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.