Turning Point

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Sample Poems by Jessica Young



Dreams

The scary ones are the familiar ones. Not the ones where some large, slick reptile appears in our basement and tries to have me for a meal, no, not the ones where my teeth crumble as I try to ask for help. Not those, but the ones where it is dark, but nothing happens. The ones where I eat every piece of food I can find and still feel hungry. The ones where Mary falls down the shallow well behind our house and could get out herself but doesn't, and I'm too distracted to notice for hours; by the time I realize it is too late, and though we bring her body back up, and though her skin and dress are unharmed, unmarked, it is obvious by the fullness of her eyes that the ground will never again seem solid. Those, and the ones where I try to run, and I do, but in slow motion, as if my body is encased in honey. Always this stickiness, the scary ones full of it. I need to wake us up.
The Jabberwocky

"It has to happen": words I dread.
She held the poison in full bloom.
"The awful thing--we'll make it dead,"
she pointed to my womb.

"Forget the thing, my girl, my child:
the pulse you feel, your heart ensnared!
It happened. Now forget." Meanwhile
I know my flesh was shared.

I took the snakeroot in my palm;
a long time kept it sitting, still--
my mother sat with me, too calm,
and warned I would feel ill.

And looking so composed, she sat,
then cupped my hands in hers, and tilt.
I tried to plead, but "None of that."
And so began the wilt.

Six flowers on its stem, soft blades.
The small plant with its satin hide,
its leaves in shapes of long, thin spades,
thick veins--its underside.

"And do you think the deed is done?"
I held my side and gave a yelp.
"O frightful day! Blight done away!"
she said like it might help.

"It had to happen": words of dread.
I ate the poison in full bloom.
"The awful thing--we've made it dead,"
she pointed to my tomb.


Inviting Alice Over for a Meal

Thursday, a week since the girls moved back, I invited her in.
She was outside, said she didn't want to go home--her father might
stop by--could she stay? And here I was, with extra lamb and

no excuse. We set the table--clean, white linens, lace mats, delicate
glasses--to fit one more body. But she said nothing, only slid
her eyes right, left, as if seeing no one. Two days ago, the same.

Found her sitting out back, scribbling in her notebook. That time,
too, I felt I should, spent the evening wishing I hadn't. That time,
too, I asked her how things are, if she practiced piano. Questions

asked without looking up off my plate. How do you talk to
someone who is elsewhere? You don't; you send her home
with leftovers. You shoo her out. You lock the door behind her.

Mary and Mending

Not in my hand. Nor by the stove. Not on chilly days
when the draft edges in. Nor on my tongue. No, not

outside, not on the face-flecked doorknob, not pressing
on the jamb, calling creak creak, creak. The faint glow:

homes past the moon-stroked sideyard--not there, either.
And yet somehow, appeared. Where, then. Here, then.


Realizing When It's Over

There comes a Sunday when you sit on the lawn. Temperature
is right, left to yourself, you think the words: I have done what I can
for these girls.
You smile, but with a slight sadness. It feels like--

like giving your youngest child away at her wedding--you have
nurtured her to this point but understand somewhere between
your ribs that someone else must step in now. Is it pride? Loss?

At least, there is no discussion--the knowing laced into the air.
They come in for their lessons, ask how you are, and in the way
your mouth turns up, the way their eyebrows pinch in, you sense

understanding. From there it is practicalities: other teachers
in the area, composers to look into. And the spot on the lawn
where you sat when you realized, you can't sit there anymore.