The things I never said, I said them like a man.
Like a man I insist I never said those things.
And afterwards I will assert I never said the second thing,
layer on layer of vow, disavowal. And what I believe,
you shall believe; there is only one thought and it is me.
My pretty girls are with me, stroking their pretty hair anxiously.
But I have to go now and watch the shows – any show with me –
I must see me being seen many hours each day or will I
still exist? The camera is upon me and the camera
is the sun is the light is my mother’s face and I
I turn to you and say we agree, don’t we agree?
I want you to be happy, that’s what I’ll say.
Look at my cleverness and all the crowds who cheer for me!
But your thousand watt smile is so confusing; it’s not
the sun I wanted and you’re wrong, you’re mean –
And you’re not pretty either. You can’t play if you’re not pretty –
Emails and Islam and cyber, believe me –
(I say believe me and you must believe me)
I run around the playground screaming
knocking down the girls and screaming
throwing rocks at the smaller children and screaming
I paid no taxes and I built the shiny tower and still I’m not
happy I’m screaming but look at me with all this winning
everyone must know I’m winning
the sun will rise and rise and I its only world
but every morning I am empty I am unmoored I am spinning
the camera is the eye, all eyes must be on me, the
eye is my mother, my mother is the sun
the sun is not upon me there is no light, I am screaming
bring back the sun.
There is no lack like the lack of her.
But I’m winning. So much winning. Look at me. I’ve won.
Jeanne Obbard works in clinical trial management and will watch any scifi show, no matter how bad. Her work has appeared in American Poetry Review, Atlanta Review, Barrow Street, Cider Press Review, and The Rumpus. She can be found on the web at jeanneobbard.com.
It continues to snow dust.
The sun comes out of the closet.
Jays enter under the door
jumping over a line of air.
Maybe it was just the light,
cracked somewhere, leaked out,
lucky—I thought you shifted away
in voice, my mouth to hear,
My senses are a cushion, and yet this horror appears to taste my morrow. My alarms are useless because they are on fire with the rest of my home.
Be honest now—
just for a minute; I cried.
I had him locked out—
a perfectly good wish.
Privately, for over a year now you drove off and left me.
The place cooled down beaming and bright—
put my name on a silencer (it’s not the end of the world).
In the mirror, the wooden bust of Christ Nicodemus carved
and Joseph commended to the sea, stares out for reflection.
Only a true spell
of fittingly glamorous phenomena
repaired sunstruck imagination—
Too big for your body, the whale of a bed will go on sale; also the dresser, its
three-linked mirrors tall as sails.
The Nazis are back in town.
No, I know. They never, ever left.