We were trapped inside.
We used to throw our cigarette butts
out the window.
We were leaving pieces of ourselves
everywhere then.
The soles of my shoes crumbled
and the threads of my shirts unraveled.

He came to see me in the middle of summer
when my clothes peeled away
from the sweat. I had these lovers then,
the kind I didn’t have conversations with
or had the simple conversations I had
with my grandparents about dinner
because their English wasn’t that good.

I met them on the Lower East Side
in bars where we couldn’t hear each other
anyway. Once I wore a dress made out
of old curtains and I carried a silk flower
that the girlfriend of a former crush
had gotten me for my birthday.
He eclipsed into her and I settled for anyone.

I never left and my lover did lines of cocaine
on my kitchen table and showed photos
of ultrasounds. His eyes were similar
blotches of light. I knew then that a baby
was impossible and that the flowers
he would bring me on my birthday
would be fake.

–Olena Jennings


Poetry

Filed under:

Poetry

3 thoughts on “BURROW

  1. I love this Olena Jennings classic — the author/narrator has a way of weaving decadence w beauty and sometimes a kind of love – w a starkness that compels the reader to follow this voice …

    What I also like is that this is a very intimate piece but not full of embarrassing details – this writer knows what to leave out so readers have room to move in.
    thank u for publishing Olena!!

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