For a son from another mom
Driving to the airport for your fourth year
at university. Been on this road
a long time. I think I see you quite clearly.
A landmark sparks a memory. A story’s spilt.
Your origin story always leaks like this.
My picture of your life’s a patchwork quilt.
There is no sequence, just some bursts of snaps.
I know I tried my best to intervene
when I could see you really needed help.
But every tiny horror sparks my guilt
I never really knew how bad it was.
Rounding a bend – vertiginous feelings tilt.
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Ace of Spades
The others worked outside me. I,
tucked in myself, was trying to die.
I did not want to eat or drink
be stuck with IVs, walk (!) or think.
They’d try to talk, I’d only hear
weird vocalizing, quacking, queer.
I turned away. I faced the wall.
I did not want the world at all.
And there he lay. My lovely Death.
So gently waiting. Breathed my breath.
I felt his own upon my face.
Such tenderness. Such loving grace.
If now’s my time to go with you,
This time I can. It’s okay, Boo.
(Please note that these words do not in any way constitute an advance directive. But if you want to intubate me, please make damn sure that I am deeply unconscious. Thank you.)
Triolet for all my moody men
I know y’all think I’m soft and can be turned
but take your moody self and walk away.
Remember some things harden when they’re burned.
I know y’all think I’m soft and can be turned.
I’m sorry that all now you haven’t learned
Because Fuck Off is all I want to say.
I know y’all think I’m soft and can be turned.
But take your moody self, and walk away.
These poems by Jane King are taken from PN Review 259, May - June 2021. Further contributions from King are available in the archive to paying subscribers, as well as more poetry, features, reviews and reports from across the back catalogue.
Nice!