Poetry by Jen Rouse

Confession

The beauty of being
bat-shit insane
is that I don't get worked up
about things like weather--
the absence of bread in a snowstorm
doesn't really propel me
towards panic.  Or sticking
the car in a snow bank?  Eh.
Rock, reverse, repeat.  Here's
the thing: I'm the kind
of crazy who does everything
right.  You would want me
around in a disaster.  I'm a pro
at crowd negotiation, death-
bed vigils, bleeding hearts and
broken children.  I will bring
you booze and braid
your hair.  I secretly look
for the good everywhere
and often find the fragile.
If you are content, this
crazy wonders: are you
asking the right questions?
Sometimes the bravest
and most ridiculous thing
I do each day is stay
alive.  

​


Whatever These Ruins

I could drunk dial you
to tell you I am lonely
to tell you the love of my life
left years ago and I barely
remember tracing the soft
curve of her thigh
with thrumming
fingers. Could you tell
the truth from a lie?
If these are the gates
of hell, I will grab
their vined sides,
throw them wide. Open.
All thorns.

It’s what you asked for.
To see the cut,
now clouded crystal,
the moth-worn dress,
the cake covered in mold.
Miss Havisham
has stopped painting her face. O
won’t you come in?

Here, every kiss
is the same kiss,
contorted.

Abandoned bliss is
a faded portrait of your
face next to my face.

Always is as empty
as always--
but
the evening light
might transform us.

At the top
of the hill is a shadow
of something. Turn
away. Turn away.

​


Stay

The hardest poem to write begins
with something the Dalai Lama said:
“Until the last moment, anything is possible.”
This is the truth with which I often struggle.
This is the box I draw around myself to protect
myself from myself. I have never found
solace in scripture. I don’t know how to call a
truce with god. Sometimes my religion
is the woman I sit across from once a week
and with whom I plead so desperately for help.

I am learning:
Sometimes it is as simple as staying to watch the final credits roll.
Sometimes it is as simple as allowing someone to hold me when I would choose to run.
Sometimes it is as simple as letting the door slam in my head and not from my hand.
Sometimes it is as simple as letting memory forget.
Sometimes it is as simple as taking oneself down from the crucifix.

I have a young daughter. She places no limits
on possibility. She believes the day should go on until
she says stop. So when she rests her dewy head
in my lap under the great expanse
of a shimmering Iowa sky, and asks,
“Can we stay, can we stay until the end of the fireworks?”
there is only one answer:
“Until the last moment, Madeline,
Yes.




Always

The cicadas blaze
across the Queen Anne’s lace.
My feet grind the gravel.
I carry this stone
with white knuckles
because I told you
I wanted to die
and it was what
you had to give.

There is a couch.  There is
an office, but I don’t believe
in you, really, not in your hand
collapsed in mine, as I send
every last sentence I have
through your body like
a jackhammer. You name
yourself container and
call me little girl.

Running in the stricken light,
the sky splits apart. If only
I could fall into the tranquil
hour, to float as though
the weight of each footfall
sounded like breath.

I carry this stone-mother,
her softness,
her muted hue.  I let
her take me under.

​
​
BIO: Jen Rouse’s poems have appeared in Poetry, Poet Lore, Pretty Owl, The Tishman Review, The Inflectionist Review, Midwestern Gothic, Sinister Wisdom, the Plath Poetry Project, Occulum, Lavender Review, and elsewhere. She has work forthcoming in Up the Staircase's 10th anniversary issue and Sliver of Stone. She’s the 2017 winner of Gulf Stream’s summer poetry contest. Rouse’s chapbook, Acid and Tender, was published in 2016 by Headmistress Press. Find her at jen-rouse.com and on Twitter @jrouse.