Poetry by Jaime Jacques

                Jody McIntyre CC


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Anger, Invalidated

Liberals, hippies, social justice warriors; do not come at me with your causes today, because today I am full of my own rage and I don’t give a shit whether you deem it valid or not. Today, friends, I have no energy to donate to your GoFundMe, to sign your online petition or get self-righteous about masks and democracy. I am full throttle into my own anger, hot enough to turn my chest into scorched earth, hard rage roving through my desert body saying: Why? Why did you waste so much time? Now it is very late. I am angry that I am a competent adult, have two degrees, still can’t afford the good cheese and currently sleep on an air mattress. I am angry that I can’t remember my childhood, that my mother also needed to erase hers, that the cycle has to stop somewhere. Where is my prize? I am pissed off that I was born into a family that was drowning, and in order not to drown myself, I cannot do what I want more than anything at this moment and that is drink eight cold beers. I am full of rage that I broke my teenage brain with drugs and men, and that nobody was there to say that is a poor choice, that nobody was there to say let me help you make better choices, that nobody was there, except vultures and other small, broken birds. I’m angry I spent 15 years holding my stomach in, and now my psoas muscle is like wtf bitch. I’m angry that by the time I healed enough to love a human up, for me it was too late. So now what? What am I supposed to do with all this womb? Do not suggest a softening, or some yoga class that’s been ruined with bad playlists and bad poetry. Do not insult the truth. I know my own soil; scattered with flowers not yet named. I keep watering them, because on most days, with sufficient sleep, sun and food, I am still very much full of hope. 





Tips for Mystics in Isolation

Take your
bomb heart
throat full of cement
head full of dead flowers
your witch wound
your rage
that inheritance
take it to your room
make sure you are alone
sit with your phone
and scroll.
Create your online crisis brand.
Do not show self-doubt or confusion,
or you will be exiled 
from the genius hippie club.
By this point 
you better be growing your own food
have picked a side
the right side
have a plan
the right plan
for When This Is Over.
Do not complain.
Do not even think about complaining.
Do not stop thinking about how lucky you are,
about how easy you have it,
or you will be removed
from the sisterhood     
of gratitude.
Laugh if you can, cry if you need to;
screaming is still unacceptable.
When you feel the rage stirring
make it into a banana loaf
subdue it with a living room work out
dress it up in make-up
cloak it in self-improvement
whatever you do:
keep it to yourself.
If you can no longer carry it
sneak it out
to the great wide open
the forbidden outside.
Plant it in the earth,
go back inside
and smile.
Keep your wild horse heat 
hidden beneath that soil
and pray
that in the summer,
when the sun pulls it back up
it will have become
something soft,
something beautiful.





Your Wandering Heart 

Come get your heart,
and bring her back home. 
I saw her on the other side of town / shivering and cold -
caught in the rain / ringing a stranger’s doorbell,
over and over again. 
I saw her late at night / eating at some cheap diner, 
looked up at me between bites / said she was starving. 
I saw her down at the pub / acting like a fool; 
I saw the vampires swarm her,
smelling her blood. 
I saw her. 
Come get your heart ,
and bring her back home. 
Open up the doors of your chest / let her settle in behind the bones.
Bring her some soup and a blanket;
tell her everything she needs is right here, 
tell her you understand that the truth of this is almost too much to bear. 
Tell her you will hold her / until she believes it. 
Tell her.
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Jaime Jacques has been through various incarnations, the most recent of which involves delivering mail and making art in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Previously Jaime worked in communications for international aid organizations before going rogue in the Northern Triangle. Her Creative Non Fiction has appeared in Salon, Narratively, Roads and Kingdoms, and NPR, among others. She is fluent in Spanish, the author of Moon El Salvador and lives for tropical storms, strong coffee and spontaneous dance parties. 

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