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

Hymn, "It Is Well With My Soul"

"When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well, it is well, with my soul."

A Poem Too Good Not To Share

PACKET
by Jamie Ross

A green light that comes
when you never saw it coming, never
heard it, felt it, but you knew it

like the woman in the sandlot
behind Abram's Grill
who's just lost her lenses,
on her hands and knees, her
hair cut short but seems as if
it's flowing, and the rush
on her throat like a rise
from birth, the music in the car

as the engine goes silent
while you fold down a seat
for the stashed beam lantern
with it's yellow plastic grip, six
Ray-O-Vacs, the
movement in the trees
beyond Lake Michigan. It's

a wave like that
when the wind gets lost
and the mail-boat from Racine, three
hours late, cracks into a tanker,
where the crew, like you, has
waited on the decks, in the hold
for two months out, to send

a message home—or to get a
certain scent, for just one instant,
of weeds, in the dirt, the both

of you groping.

Wall Project

Records affixed to the wall with command poster strips.

Records: $.99 per record
Command adhesive: $1.84 per 8 pack.

= $7.64 plus taxes.

I am planning on adding two to four more records. I didn't realize how large the wall was!

Drinking Proximo

I could tell you

what is waiting in the doorway

of concupiscence

but the answer is simple:

nothing.

My body is passing

away into the creak and fall

of pain--

the part where numbness sets in.

I can't feel alive.

The doorway is old

wood has been shaved off

paint peels in splinters

and the texture is rubbing away.

I placed a curtain of black over it today.

A shower of disgrace.

Partly Wired

He didn't know if it was

red or white or yellow

that got the lights working again

that would put the flicker back into her face.

Twisting and stripping wire

so that the current can carry

through walls and into outlets

isn't his day job.

Isn't really

his job at all.

The radio dims in sound

the lights waver

and he jumps back.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Takes the time

to make sure his feet

are firmly planted-

left hand takes blue

right hand takes red

heels seized in boot sole

and go.