Poetry by Jeri Thompson

          Daniel Oines CC



​Every Broken Girl


Every broken girl
is looking for her daddy

May hell’s darkest shades
shadow the father
who taught his little girl
the way to his heart
is through
his pants.




Wesley in the Mental Ward


He’s William Powell without tux and tie.
He’s Peter Pan, straight from jail,
an ex-junkie, wanting to make things right.
He’s Icarus flirting with the sun.
Mostly, he’s Linus, clutching his yellow blanket.

My hearts drops to my knees looking into
his turbulent eyes. I jerk my gaze away. I must.
What would he think, this 30 year-old,
if he knew I wanted to save him?

My heart couldn’t survive the
fall from his heights,
or crawl from the depth of his trenches.
He’s used to velvet skin,
while mine is all rust and wrinkle.




Grandma's Attic


I would climb up the stairs that
Groaned like an old lady rising.
The stairs were narrow, even for
a chubby 12 year-old who was used to
sneaking about in shadows.
It was the finest cocoon of the senses --
freshly cut oregano, basil, thyme.
The low ceiling, filled with hanging copper
pots, bowls, colanders, spoons and a spatula--
a white, rubber spatula that tasted like vanilla.

The sweetness of that vanilla spatula was
haunted with the ghosts of birthdays, Xmas date cookies, cannoli,
crème puffs, cakes from scratch, heaping with vanilla frosting.
To a kid with a growing eating disorder,
comfort came in flavors and vanilla was love.

Grandma’s attic was filled
with the projects and to-do lists of a 1950s grandmother --
Grandpa’s zipper repair, Aunt Mary’s
wedding-shower dress hem. Patterns and material,
sewing projects hung on the walls
with red-yellow-blue threads next to the
Sears & Roebuck antique sewing machine
where I learned to sew. That was before we relocated
to California and I became another latch-key kid.

I hide inside the footage of closets and attics, holding
secrets in time's tight crawl. Home was there, safety was defined
in her attic. I wrapped myself in the woof and warp of
Grandma and the spatula tasting of vanilla.

When we got home, the only thing to soothe
the sorrow of love left behind was the memory
of  that spatula that tasted of vanilla,
and vanilla is love.

​

Bio: Jeri Thompson is a poet living and writing in Long Beach, Ca and has her degree from CSULB. She has appeared in numerous publications and has her favorite poetry home, here. Her goal is to get into Rattle one day. You can find her work in Chiron Review, The Fox Poetry Box, Carnival Lit, Silver Birch Press and Red light lit, among others she can’t remember right now.

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