Author Archives: Jenny

  Arabic of the hair of my husband’s chest each year a new phrase   aquamarines in my hair tremors of light my husband’s diamond mind,   Gift us, O Day with your curls and pennies sufficient is your evil. … Read More

  I was visiting the capital city of Slovenia, passing through the park. At the edge was a man selling chestnuts, sitting on a bag of chestnuts, inhaling a cigarette with one hand and with the other stirring chestnuts in … Read More

  for Darach   So quickly, this child learns the ways of swipe and scroll. We find him, hiding behind the sofa with a small screen, his little fingers far faster than ours across the surface. Those first weeks, he … Read More

  Night after night this waking, suddenly middle-aged and barely able to drag myself to the kitchen, finding it hard to be in night’s gulf with so much blatant wanting, where bowls nest, fragile and void, poised to accommodate hunger’s … Read More

  The feel of a sheet is called the hand. The feel of a hand is called a plan. Paris is a plan. His petunias are a plan. After the grey spring dawn has found its shopping basket & put … Read More

  Chatsworth Estate, Derbyshire England, May 2012   Having left London to see what was demolished in 1920, which was the world’s largest greenhouse.   Having found in its place a hedge maze choked with strollers and ice cream vendors.   Having shaded and … Read More

  When the task is vast and grim, the gods fit you with blinders— bend your focus to the miniscule. Awaiting no godmother, Aschenputtel settles to the work, bows her head, picks peas out of ashes. Just so, bald women … Read More

  Taken for granted, his teeth, when taken from his mouth one crisp spring day, suddenly seemed so useful and white (the clever way they end-stopped the sad, pink sponge of his gums), but when he removed his dentures at … Read More

  Winter-honed knife, halving the space between us. Each week, the having and not having. And in the fields beside the road, the calving.

  There’s Monet at the edge of the water-lily pond. It’s 1905. The Great War is still no menace, but he can sense his mission: to paint canvasses that will bring others the tranquility he feels when he gets it … Read More

  I am a fourth magnitude star above Manhattan, a full moon rising beside me. I am blue socks in a drawer of blue socks. I am the shell passed over by children and hermit crabs alike. I am the … Read More

  The pond we kissed beside was full of soda cans and stars. The bathroom sink continues to drip into the orange stain of itself. The same color would be pleasing in a moth. Here’s something I’ve learned: The more … Read More