A Walk in the Park, Ars Poetica, & That Where There is Error, I May Bring Truth
A Walk in the Park
God forbid my girlfriends will say
something happens
Meaning
in the event you might get divorced
put his name on everything
the rent the electric the water split
it 50/50 down the middle that way
when it’s over you’re both stuck
with the same price to pay I do
not think like this
I do not think God will have any say
in my marriage or rather I hope
whatever higher power at large
in charge of my life turns a blind
eye when it comes to matters
of love because I know it only takes two
to tango three
is a crowd
too many cooks spoil the pot Meaning
the only God that exists sleeps
in the space between my husband
and me and when we leave
that God splits breaking
apart so that we may both shoulder
the share of the other’s divine power
whenever we are not together we adjust
our shoulders just to carry our better half’s
sleeping God’s weight heavy
the burden to be in love
without these resting spirits
we might forget the perpetual glee
of touching feet between the sheets
this is his favorite thing Meaning
we did not always share the same bed and
God forbid that happens again
Ars Poetica
He cuts me off. The earth
is full of silences. Does art change
anything? The pain in my knees
shoots straight to my teeth. You can’t see
it, but I feel it. Is this art? We see art
but can’t touch it. No. We touch it
before we see it. It touches us. I think
the ancient people are listening.
Did you finish giving all you have
to give? Is our work ever done?
That Where There is Error, I May Bring Truth
Prayer to St. Francis
Did I tell him I wished
he were dead? Yes. Yes.
Yes. I told him, more or less,
that his presence made my life
complex. Yes, this makes me
a horrible daughter. No:
this is not me at my best,
yet this is the me I will
not let myself forget. I
remember the way he
wiped his mouth after
an early morning vomit,
slightly, just a soft graze
of the fingertips at the edge
of his lips. His skin
sweat the stench of a liver
disintegrating, like Death
anticipating a win. His complexion
more grey than beige. Every
day the same buried pain. What
does it take for a man
to get this way? What is it
that you want to know?
Okay. I’ll tell you one thing:
At fifteen I spent evenings wiping
his bloody piss off the floor
not because he missed —
because he had no control
over his body. When the addict
is that bad he wakes
himself up from the stench of his
own shit. He lied to me. He said
he was two weeks sober. Whatever
I said I know enough now to pray
to never treat to anyone
the way I did my father.
Born and raised in Brooklyn, New York Abriana Jetté is an internationally published poet and essayist and educator. Her anthology “50 Whispers: Poems by Extraordinary Women” debuted as a #1 best seller on Amazon, and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Seneca Review, River Teeth, Barrelhouse, The Moth, and many other places. She teaches for St. John’s University, for the College of Staten Island, and for the nonprofit organization Sponsors for Educational Opportunity.