Cul-De-Sac

I’m going to holler into the darkness

pray someone answers me back

for the road is dark and made

of uneven cobblestone. The needles press against my skin

the hobos glare     children taunt     I walk

alone dropping pieces of skin

dead     mostly but I’m bleeding

tearing away at what can be seen

the epidermis is what causes trouble

dry and wet

cold and warm

sent out into the night.

I’m going to holler into the darkness

hope someone answers

everyone seems dead

or a million miles away.

Words go unanswered.

The SOS is kicked back into beach.

Sleep well into the darkness

I’ll be here     washing and wishing

things weren’t stacked so tall

things weren’t falling apart

I gave away all of my thread

the needles are under my skin

     a saw to check for my life

sifting and unable

to catch light.

Jennifer Taylor

The Goddess and Her Ram

According to the stars
we only had a 50/50 chance of surviving
so I count it as a miracle
that we lasted this long. Perhaps the fire in you
could no longer stand
the dirty virgin of me and just set fire
to the whole thing
screaming     just stay.

I took a cue from you
and lit a match, but sinking it
into soil never made a blaze. You attained 
no bonfire in my perceived failure, only smoke. 
Your coward of a wheat harvest mistress 
is about small symbols of methodology
of waiting for the elements
to mate.

You lit your own match.
Your wild curled horns shone 
in the light
and in your blue irises.
The shed of potting soils and tools
ignited as you vomited up kerosene to feed
the slow determined waves
your back rolling
the flames growing large
over the smolder between my legs
the matchbook
between my teeth.

When you had finished heaving
the sirens coming in the wake
I wanted to hover over the clover
and take the burn instead but
my toes hooked in the soil.
I walked steady
hand lying open the fence with a howl
never looking from a Southward
direction. I let the matchbook
fall where it may.

Jennifer Miller McIntyre

She Cannot Get

She cannot get

this close to the fire.

She wants to wander the edge of your blade

and run it down her arm

like she did the scissors

when disowned by her sister.

In her mother’s bathroom

she cried, hoped to pass out

or submerge the edge.

But she couldn’t let the blood come

a mother

with a liturgical life long

job to be present for the multitude of cells 
that turned into her child.

Her wrists are volleyballs for saints 

walking tightropes of dirty needles in twine.

No one is going to love her

like her father does.

Paned windows cut through her in Paris–

saints in colored glass, Jesus’ crown of thorns.

Held against the chest of her faith when she looks forward

is the thought: no one wants to hear these things. How

she wants to depart but can’t. How she lives

and the way it blisters.

Don’t talk to her about your desire

the way you should have been

the things you should have said.

You are refuse

blowing in the breeze

on the Rue du Chevalier

that blew up her dress

and went on your merry way.

Jennifer Miller McIntyre

"Like an Empty Restaurant Full of Perfume and Balloons."

Rybicki Evening

Eating salmon with capers, herbed cream cheese

on toasted foccacia bread crested with red wine vinegar

marinated onions on a plate, rimmed in gold

water in a goblet, two forks, a napkin in the lap

then, to the bus station, to find a way back,

traversing the flat, black sea with someone learning to compose music

or so says the idiot’s guide in his hands or the man talking incessantly

about someone’s anger. Looking out the city is dark and wet for this evening

no longer smells like home

the rhythm of the city has changed–

it lassoed lights and smells it found in magazines

made a priority of miscellany or perhaps,

this mediocre nose and eyes have developed with the woman

layered under fleece and her father’s sweatshirt,

plodding along,

lost in a tidal wave of revelations and language

tireless when hunted.

Jennifer Miller McIntyre

A Surrealist Exercise

Stage Left Bank

Seeing elephants made of clay

as you drive to teach youth

can never be a good sign

lights rise

men in distinguished hats rarely dance

Quick

moving boxes filled with spaghetti

curtains part

a woman sings a shrill note that goes from G to E

and back, no Bach, no concerto, just her sliding note

in the key of grass

Applause

Silence

A small dog timidly peeks out

a clay elephant in his mouth

forty-two teeth marks and a missing leg

A small boy runs in

thud of footfall

gives the dog a fedora to wear

placing it between the ears

then screaming one single note

the boy pogo jumps away

The play had never begun

Jennifer Miller McIntyre

Post-Workshop, Third Draft.

Kingdom Come

She wants to be your apocalypse

the one who reins down the worth of you

and judges breath. She wants to be the force

that makes you unable to say no.

All you ever wanted was a yes.

She wants to be the one to forage you in her arms until

the horsemen bow their heads and raise their swords

letting their horns blow their last.

She will drop her wings on your threshold and still ascend.

All you ever wanted was a yes.

The mess of severance will be devastating, but you saw it

coming on the edges of cameras

that caught too much joy

fraud committed with eyes screaming death.

The stark contrast between worship and apathy

became a schism with no hope to bear.

All you ever wanted was a yes.

Wandering along the back of her neck

you witness what was supposed to be.

You both pushed and pulled

dancing as you desecrated each other.

But in the end,

there was no apocalypse.

It was the human condition

marked only by sinful behavior.

Treat her as diphtheria

to your penicillin. Mend her.

Only then will you both be

precise and defined.

All you ever wanted was a yes.

Jennifer Miller McIntyre

Sang à Vendre

The dog could come in bleeding from a piece of glass
or pressure-cooked marinara sauce
could explode.

Marionettes could wave the communist flag.

A double-decker bus could go by
in London or eyes could sweep over
Matisse's 1911 studio.
its grandfather clock without hands.

Ladybugs could lay their eggs
on the tulips making up Mickey's
smile at the entrance to Disneyland.

The water at Normandy couldn't be documented in color.

The nurse could hold up the placenta
in the blue
plastic bin.

A railway car could go by
tagged by a blood.

And Clara Bow's lips
could have pressed
against the camera lens
as she wore
the matching boxing gloves.

J. Miller McIntyre

For this, I looked up a tube map...

Bank of America

The parking lot

smelled like London

when I was looking for bookshops alone

around Leicester Square

where there were racks of silk scarves

folded neat with bright pinks and greens and gold

two for fifteen pounds.

I touched them, watching the shopkeepers

not sure if I would give in

and buy one or two.

They were nice but

with the exchange rate

they were twice that in American dollars.

So instead, I took a wrong turn into Chinatown

smelling the cooking onions and

bok choy in vegetable oil. I cut through a shop

and went back out. Later, I found a copy

of Naked Lunch that I paid too much for.