Poetry Collection
by Jessica Heron
Stairwell by Anonymous
Stairwell
Hot metal, piss,
stale cigarettes,
stuck air
Thickened paint
blue-gray fire
container
To hallways,
front doors,
incinerator doors
To glass walls and
three rectangles
each thin, open
To send out clouds
while he stood there
smoking
Poetry Readings on Zoom
He said he never puts books on the shelf
unless he's read them. He was
in college. Short stacks on the floor
are invisible now with our
desktop cameras on, but his shelves
were already filled. He smiles because,
success. Look at all the awards behind him.
She says she can only keep ten
because minimalism and
illness. One day she might afford
to display them in glass. Maybe the select
few, or maybe someday all of them. Maybe
someday she can buy them all back.
They sell book-scented candles now, twenty bucks
for the experience of antique dust, mold, mildew.
She keeps one in her cart. She keeps
her video turned off. She watches
the images. The decaying pages of the select
backlight, those smiling award-winning faces.
The Blinding
The moon is in its fullest form,
Purest brightest widest white.
The night a copy paste of autumn.
Roads empty of headlights.
Sorcery and spruce conspire
Blinking moon to wet the wound.
Slick black asphalt touches tires.
Misery again empties a lover's room.
I am good as blind tonight, that is, good for nothing.
Beaten down by your endless sighs, breathlessly ineffective.
I would rather shut myself in, alone
Than decrypt sympathy from dissatisfaction.
My required solace, dark and silent as the eyes of the dead,
Is digging with my misery for us an early grave.
Clockwork
The trees are casting long shadows.
I've been here before, in the airport
in Caracas. I'd lost time.
No wrist-watch, no wall clock;
I watched the shadows move.
No numerical assignments,
no scheduled increments
except my plane ticket,
but I didn't notice.
I've been there before, carefree or careless,
I'm quite aware…
The dog fed now and the lamp lit;
I watched the shadows move.
I did not have to choose
indulgent sadness.
I missed out.
The trees are casting long shadows.
I notice now.
Jessica Heron grew up splitting time between New York City and New Jersey beaches. Her work has been published in Wormwood Magazine. She is working on her MFA in poetry and enjoys a career as an applied linguist.