Poetry by Hege A. Jakobsen Lepri

Sudden Weakness

I don’t do poetry
                                               anymore
                                                                              only a secret puff
now and then    
                                behind a tree
                                                                in my garden
or a few stolen words
                                                 in an alley
                                                                                in a language not mine
Who
                do I think
                                                 I am
                                                                letting these syllables
                                                                                                                  sully my tongue?
I quit
                that shit
                                  while
                                                 there was
                                                                                still time
                                                                                                                 did I not?
If you see me
                                dealing
                                                in allegory or
                                                                                 alliteration
                                                                                                                know it is
merely a moment’s
                                                weakness
                                                                                most days I am
                                                                                                               better than that   

​


The Night I Left Home

The night I left home, I didn’t drop words in the dark along the path to help me find my way back home.
I kept them in my mouth, chewed on them until they had nothing of their original substance left.
Drenched in spit and doubt, they swelled, grew into a muzzle.

It was cold in the woods, then as now, and when I stood there frozen I imagined hearing the rustling of
wild animals. There was a faint smell of gingerbread that would have made my mouth water—if it were
not full of rotting words.

Much later, I would learn to twist my tongue around the debris, but every sweet thing that crossed my
dental bridge would still come with a hint of bitter.
​
In moonlight, I wonder if the lace on my tongue is a secret trail.

​

Hege A. Jakobsen Lepri is a Norwegian-Canadian translator and writer based in Toronto. In a previous life she wrote poetry and erotica in Norwegian. She returned to writing in 2011, after a very, very long break. Her writing has since been longlisted for Prism International nonfiction prize and the Peter Hinchcliffe Fiction Award, shortlisted for Briarpatch’s ‘Writing in the Margins’ contest, and published (or forthcoming) in J Journal, Saint Katherine Review, Monarch Review, Citron Review, Sycamore Review, subTerrain Magazine, Broken Pencil, Agnes and True, Forge Literary Magazine, Fjords Review, Grain Magazine, Typehouse Literary Review, The Nasiona, WOW! -Women on writing, The New Quarterly and elsewhere. Twitter handle @hegelincanada  

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