Poetry by Jesse Devyn Crowe

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​​The Beholder

I learned beggars can't be choosers, so my wedding was a simple affair.  My husband didn't remember much — too drunk I guess.  His mother liked Tanqueray, said I had a big mouth, deserved everything I got.  "Too late now," he laughed, and I believed him.  Praying, arguing, pleading — simply life's game.  Makeup hid the bruises so I could smile for the camera.  Wheelie luggage filled with moldering scabs; rarely did I muster the courage to peer inside, God forbid discard anything rotten.  Because telling someone — anyone — would have been too embarrassing; so I got good at being someone else, good at pretending, dissolving, good at masks.  Granted, this happened before I realized some people destroy those they swear they love.  Home is where the heart is...even when it's broken.  Stories written from my perspective didn't resemble the tales others told at all.  As if there's a one-size-fits-all version of truth.  Tripping, falling, bleeding — simply the reveal.  Time’s up, turn in those papers.  Victor Hugo wrote “Dreaming is happiness. Waiting is life.”  One day at a time.  Those years I questioned whether I'd ever find anything like a soul mate, a Lover to stand beside me beneath the Tree of Life, someone who accepted me exactly as I was and wouldn't try to chisel me into a more dutiful, convenient... other.  When will pharmaceutical companies develop a pill to erase the memories we no longer want?  Unfortunately, those we leave behind remain ever-present, emerging from the river of our consciousness, peering at us from the photographs collected over a lifetime — not to mention the heart-rending panic when we notice a beige jacket in the crowd, a salt and pepper beard, short-cropped black hair. 
          Moonlight on Stormy Mountain, Perseids streaking through the indigo night.  Andre Breton asserted “... an ordinary observer lends so much more credence and attaches so much more importance to waking events than to those occurring in dreams.”  Lake reflecting sky /reflecting lake; I too, a /rippling mirror.  My game, my reveal, my choice.  "Divorced doesn't mean dead," Katie laughed, dragging me to the saloon, "besides, you've been dreaming about meeting some guy here for months."  Beauty exists in the eye of the beholder — of course slow country music and a tall man in a black cowboy hat was admittedly my weakness (still is).  Because I think the Beatles had it right: there IS such a thing as love at first sight, although I'm uncertain how often it happens.  All I knew was my secrets didn't matter anymore.  I recall that November Sunday as if it were yesterday: snow spiraling against the windows, spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, football on TV.  Setting his hat aside, he took my small hand in his and whispered "Darlin', pleeze stop talking already and kiss me." 




Jesse Devyn Crowe (she/her) shares a home with her fisherman husband and an adventurous Labrador Retriever at the edge of the grid where she can see the stars.  Her neighbors include mule deer, hawks, quail, pines, and coyotes.  A Pushcart Prize nominee. Jesse's creative work has appeared in Clamor, Minerva Rising, miniskirt magazine and The Weight of Motherhood anthology.  (jessedevyncrowe.com)