April 1, 2014

Edison Jennings


When she doesn’t show,
toss out the bread for birds,
freeze the shrimp in Tupperware,
and forget the words—

all that awful sweet-talk
you practiced while you cooked,
the boyish innuendoes
on just how good she looked.

Plug the cork back in the wine
(the fresh whipped cream won’t last);
what was meant to be a feast
has now become a fast.

Take the pills the doctor gave
and try to get some sleep:
what you could not save
was never yours to keep.

from Rattle #41, Fall 2013
Tribute to Single Parent Poets

[download audio]


Edison Jennings: “I live in Virginia with my two sons, and none of us are sure why I persist in writing poetry. But sometimes I tell my sons that maybe I write poetry because of a desire (a need?) to take part in an age-old conversation. In other words, I want to respond to a call, as in call and response. The bard calls and I squeak out a response. There are many calls and many responses, stretching back millennia. It is a communal and constantly evolving conversation. At least, that’s what I tell my sons.”

Rattle Logo